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This story is copyright ©2002 by Adam Gunn. All rights reserved. Comments are welcomed. Please email me by clicking here.
Please Note: This is part 4 of a continuing story. I strongly suggest you read parts 1, 2 & 3 before you read part 4.
The Sailor's Wife IV: Folk Song Stephanie stood outside the Harbor House restaurant in Jack London Square, waiting for the rest of the women to arrive. For the fourth time she looked at the black and white glossy photograph, with the large, limpid eyes, reminiscient of a St. Bernard. Below it, a placard announced: "Rusty Newland-One Week Only!" Who the hell, she wondered, was Rusty Newland? She was looking forward to the Wednesday evening out, a birthday party for one of her coworkers. It had been a long ten days, continually filled with crying jags and thoughts of what she'd done with and to Chuck, and how it had gone so terribly wrong. Even at work, she'd been depressed, unable to concentrate. The first week she'd gone through a couple bottles of rum, most of it cut with Pepsi Cola, some straight. Not much sleep. She'd gone down to Kelly's one night. Jim, thankfully wasn't there, but four or five guys hit on her. One in particular wouldn't leave her alone, and when he bluntly proposed that they go to his place and screw, she told him to go to hell, threw her drink in his face, and walked out. She promised herself she'd never go back. After a very unsatisfactory phone call the previous Saturday, Joann just showed up at her front door, held her hand, and let her cry as she hugged her. She wanted to know what was wrong, but Stephanie couldn't bear to confess to her, or anyone, about Chuck. Now Joann wouldn't leave her alone, she'd been over every night, at least for a half-hour or so. The last three days had been much better, and Steph actually smiled every once in awhile. The women, dressed in skirts and dresses, began arriving, and they went into the restaurant for a happy dinner, eight of them sitting around a long table. The waiter got into the mood, joking with them, and by the time the entire waitstaff came around to sing birthday greetings to the unfortunate celebrant, a rosy glow-part alcohol, mostly companionship-had descended on the flock. As the party started breaking up, Joann quietly asked once again if Steph was okay. "Yeah, I'm fine. No, really," she insisted, seeing the disbelief on her friends face. "This was really nice." The group crossed to the exit, and they passed the lounge. The singer was just into his first set and there were only five or six people imbibing, largely ignoring the entertainment. The song was one of Steph's favorites, 'You've Got A Friend' by James Taylor. "You want to have a drink and listen for awhile?" Steph asked. "Okay, but you're having a coke," Joann commanded. Three of the others decided to join them, and they sat, mostly chatting, sometimes listening to the vocalist in the corner playing folk music on a six-string guitar. Steph liked the way he looked with long wavy brown hair, and a funny little cap perched on top of his head. For over an hour he sang, playing five or six songs in a row, stopping only to tune the guitar or replace a broken string. When he took a break, he stopped over at their table. "Evening, ladies! You look like you're having fun, anything special you want to hear?" "How about 'Knockin' on Heaven's Door?" somebody suggested. "Yeah, I can do that," he promised. "You're pretty good." Joann said. "How do you play all those chords?" "Big hands." "Is it true?" one of them asked. "If you want to find out," he smiled, "I'm around." The women all laughed at the inside joke as he left them to get a drink. Steph wondered what was so funny. "What was all that about big hands?" "Haven't you ever heard that, Steph? Big hands . . ." "Big Dick!" the rest of the group cried in unison, gaining amused stares from the other tables. When Rusty returned, he started with Dylan's new song, just as he said he would, and then smoothly transitioned into 'He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother.' The gang sat through four more songs, then they decided they'd better go to their respective homes. As they passed Rusty, they each put a dollar in his tip jar, and he thanked each one. When it came to Stephanie's turn, he looked deeply into her eyes, and said, "See you around!" Joann called the next night, checking up, and then said, "Hey, remember Nancy Stevens? You know, they got transferred down to Santa Barbara? Well, I was thinking of going down there to visit this weekend, you want to come?" Steph thought about her lack of plans for the weekend, it sounded appealing. Then she remembered she never got along that well with Nancy, changed her mind and said, "I don't think so." "Well, maybe I'll stick around, and we can do something together," Joann offered. "No, you go on down, have fun. I'll be fine." Friday night. Steph had already made a frozen TV dinner, washed her hair, and had absolutely nothing to do. She didn't want to read a book and there was nothing on TV. She sat on the patio, listening to K101 FM, watching the lights twinkle on the hillside above her, and knew she was bored. There must be something she could do. Should she go back to Kelly's? No, definitely not. Just then on the radio, she heard the first strains of "You've Got A Friend," and she thought about the musician at the Harbor House. She'd liked him and the songs he played. Maybe she should go back down there; it was a nice place, more upscale than Kelly's, she probably wouldn't be bothered there. Or if she was, at least it would be a better class of cretin. She put on a paisley blouse and some bell-bottoms and drove on down to the square. When she entered the place, she noticed it was more crowded than two nights ago; couples or foursomes waiting for tables in the dining room, two or three groups of businessmen at the bar, and a similar number of office women at tables, winding down from the workweek. Rusty was leading the bunch in a rendition of "Joy To The World," and the guys nodded to Steph as she chose an empty table next to the wall. She ordered a rum and coke, and intently listened to the performer. Most of the songs were covers of breezy pop and folk music, but every once in awhile he'd throw in one she'd never heard before, one of his own compositions probably. A man came over and sat down. "Hi, how are you doing?" he began. "Just fine." "Come here often?" "Not very." "Can I buy you a drink?" She put her left hand on the table and displayed the ring finger. "Thanks, no, I'm waiting for someone," she lied. He took the hint. For the next half-hour, no one bothered her and she was as content as she was going to get, she figured. The set was over, and the guitarist told the crowd he'd be back in 15 minutes, stick around. He left the room, but a few minutes later he was standing next to Steph. "Hi, mind if I sit down?" "No, be my guest," she agreed. He caught the waitress's attention. "Seven-up for me, Donna. And another one for my friend here." "You didn't have to do that," she protested. "It's okay, the manager knows I'm never going to clear my tab anyway. You were here two nights ago, weren't you?" "How did you remember?" "I couldn't forget a face like yours, lovely and forlorn." It didn't seem like a pick up line. "My name's Rusty," and he offered his hand. "Stephanie." They talked for a few minutes while he drained his Seven-up. She learned that he was from Boston, out on a tour of the west, would be here through the weekend, and was moving to a place in the Piedmont District next week. "Is your husband going to meet you here?" "No, he's out at sea. I'm just trying to kill some time." "Loneliness, huh? I dig that." "I bet you do. How long have you been on the road?" "Fourteen weeks now." "Anybody waiting for you back in Boston?" "An old girlfriend. We've been seeing each other for four years now, since we were in college. Someday we might make something of ourselves, if she doesn't get tired of waiting for me to get off the road. Ah, the manager's getting restless, I've got to get back to work. Wait around for another set, okay?" She agreed, and he returned to the platform, starting with the Eagles 'Peaceful Easy Feeling.' A little later, he played a song she'd never heard before, about a couple at the ocean, and she was mesmerized by the refrain: 'The surf and the sun, we've just begun The stars and skies, shining in her eyes.' When he returned, thirsty again, she asked him about the song. "I wrote it on Cape Cod, I was a lot younger then." "Is it about your girlfriend?" "She's in there, yeah. In fact, quite a bit of her." "She's lucky. No one's ever written a song about me." "Maybe someone will, someday," he responded. "Do you wish she was here?" "Sometimes. She wouldn't be happy, though, too much of a homebody. She hates the wanderlust in me, but loves the poet. She doesn't understand that one comes with the other." It was almost midnight, time to start the last set. "I liked talking with you, thanks for the drinks," Stephanie told him. "Don't go yet," he begged. "You don't have to work in the morning, do you?" "No." "Then why don't you wait for me to get off? I heard about a great after-hours blues joint over in Berkeley." She thought about the wanderlust in the artist, and how she often wanted to be a nomad herself. Staying up late, going to a Berkley coffee shop, that was something vagabonds did, something she could never do with Glenn. "Sure," she decided. "Great, I'll be back before you know it." The next set was happy, full of joy, and when he finished he got a nice round of applause from the grateful audience. If he wasn't a superstar, at least he knew how to turn a lounge full of middle aged people on. "You mind driving?" he asked Stephanie as he packed his guitar up. "No." "Good. Otherwise, we're walking!" Off they went through the early morning darkness to an address on Telegraph Road, and the bouncer let them in when Rusty dropped the name of the nightclub owner. Through the cigarette haze they listened to the band, two saxophones, a scat singer. They'd barely sat down when a funny cigarette was passed to Steph. She'd seen and smelt marijuana before, but never tried it. Glenn was paranoid, thinking if they caught him with pot he'd lose a stripe or even get discharged, and Steph just went along with his fears. But here it was all different, so she took a long draw on the doobie. She held it in for a few seconds, then coughed it out. She tried it again on the next pass with a little more success but half an hour later, when she didn't feel anything, she figured she was one of those people who it just didn't affect. Rusty pointed out people to her, Paul Kanter of the Airplane, David Freiberg of Quicksilver Messenger Service. Peter Albin, now with Country Joe and the Fish, stopped over to say 'Hi,' and Rusty explained he'd met him as a studio musician. The band played on, and the place got mellow. Finally, sometime long after three, Steph began to droop and asked Rusty if he wanted to go yet. He left with her, a little reluctantly, and when they passed an all night diner Stephanie insisted on stopping-all of a sudden, she was famished. Over the meal of chili and eggs, she asked him what he did during the day. "The last two weeks, I was in San Francisco, so I went down by Fisherman's Wharf and played for the tourists. I get to play some, and the quarters they toss keep me in weed." "Can I go with you tomorrow?" She wanted to see more of him. "Sure, you'll be bored, though." "If I am, I'll find something else to do." When she dropped him at the nondescript motel, she wondered if he'd invite her in, but he simply said, "See you later," and Steph drove home. She woke sometime after 11:00, feeling good, not hung over as she expected she'd be. She lay in bed and thought about Rusty. At times he'd been very talkative, yet at other times he listened intently to her speak about her life, her self. The idea of being with him pleased her. Going into San Francisco would be fun; she'd always wondered what the life of a street artist would be like. She yawned her way into the kitchen, put a filter and a couple of scoops of coffee into the machine, and got it going. Then she picked up the phone, and called Rusty at his motel. He sleepily answered, "Hello?" "Hi, did I wake you?" "God, you're cheery in the morning. It's still morning, isn't it?" "Barely. You sure you don't mind me coming with you to your gig?" She'd started learning the patter of musicians. "No, otherwise, I'd have to take the bus across. But I still say you'll be bored." "I'll take my chances. Pick you up in forty-five minutes?" On the drive across the Bay Bridge, Rusty looked back to the East Bay and saw two aircraft carriers tied up at Alameda. "Those things are what your husband's on, huh?" "Yeah." "They're big." "Big and ugly." He asked her about Glenn, what he was like. Rusty watched her eyes as she explained how they'd met in high school and married soon after he enlisted. It changed into an explanation of what she did while her husband was gone, her girlfriends, and her problems. Rusty let her talk, asked questions at the appropriate times, seemed to care. She thought about telling him about Chuck-she hadn't bared her soul about that one to anyone-but a motorcycle cut her off on the Embarcadero freeway, and the moment passed. Soon they found a parking spot four blocks from the cable car turnaround, and they walked down. "This is where it's good," he explained. "The magicians and comics don't like to hang here, they want to go where they can get people's attention for at least ten minutes. I don't need that long, only two or three." He stood up against a short wall just a few steps from where the tourists were lining up to get on the trolley, took his guitar out and opened the case onto the ground. Then he threw a bunch of change and a couple of dollar bills into it. "If you don't start them off, nobody will throw you anything. I guess it's sort of Pavlovian." Then he started his act, talking to the crowd, complimenting the women and girls and comically insulting the guys, then sang his first song-"I Left My Heart In San Francisco." Three or four people dropped a dime or quarter into the case before they jumped on the cable car. He played another song, then played "If You're Going To San Francisco Be Sure To Wear Flowers In Your Hair." More money appeared on the red velvet lining. He kept it up, occasionally tossing Steph a look as she sat on a bench twenty-five feet away, and went back time and time again to the two big money makers. During a break, he came over and sat beside her. "What's with repeating the two songs?" she asked. "Man, am I sick of 'Heart' and 'Flowers!' But if that's what people are going to pay for, that's what I'll sing." He went back to the audience, and after she watched him play for another half-hour, she told him she was going to go for a walk, she'd be back. When she returned two hours later, he was still at it, as pleasant as ever, but it didn't look like he was doing very well-there only seemed to be a little more money in the case then when he started. He went on for almost another hour, and then she was ready to do something else. But how could she tell him what she wanted? Impulsively, she went to him and gave him a brief kiss. It shocked both of them. "You ready to go?" he asked. "Sure, if you are." "Might as well, it's getting a little cold now, and the folks are having problems getting their hands out of their pockets." On the way back, she asked him about the poor receipts. "Poor? I made almost 35 bucks today!" "But there wasn't anything in your case." "You got to clean it out every once in awhile," he revealed. "If the tricks see too much, they think you're rich, and they won't pay up." On the way back, they stopped for dinner, and she asked him how he got into the business. "It's all my folks fault. They sent me to the New England Conservatory of Music, I studied the Oboe. The third year, they told me I was pretty good. If I worked hard, got my masters, they thought I could pick up a position with the Peoria Symphony. 'Course, they also told me I'd have to cut my hair. So I picked up the guitar, and here I am!" "Don't you get tired of being on the road?" "Not really. I'm sort of a loner to begin with, and I just like seeing different places all the time." "Where are you going after you leave Oakland?" "I don't know, I've got nothing set up. Maybe I'll head back East, or maybe I'll stick around here, get a construction job or something. My agent's got a line on a band they're putting together, but then he's always telling me something big is gonna happen next week." She took him back to the motel, and came into his room while he showered behind the closed bathroom door and changed into better clothes for the lounge. The room was dingy, but he was neat, with all his stuff put away in the drawers. "You gonna come by the lounge tonight," he asked her as he was shaving, half dressed in his bell-bottoms, "or have you had enough?" "I'm gonna go back to my place, do a couple things, but if you want me to, I'll come over later." He smiled, "I'd like that. I like you." When she got back to her apartment, she found three letters from Glenn-even though he wrote one a day, the post office delivered them in batches-and read them all twice, voraciously. They were leaving the Philippines (of course, the most recent letter was five days old,) and headed for the Gulf of Tonkin. He was safe, he was healthy, and he missed her. He didn't say much about the three days of restocking in Subic Bay. Stephanie wondered if he'd gone into town, visited a hooker. She wrote back, telling him about her day, about Rusty, and how she'd taken him into San Francisco. She wanted to tell him about how she'd smoked pot, but figured he might start worrying if he heard that. She sealed the envelope, and then took a long, hot shower. She turned the television on, and thought some more about Rusty, how he'd talked with her, and how he looked so appealing while he stood before the mirror, bare-chested, shaving. A whiff of desire wafted over her, almost hidden, and she dozed. An hour later she woke up and headed down to Jack London Square. The room was full, and she had to wait for someone to leave before she could get a seat at the bar. Rusty had the room jamming, singing along with him, and was taking requests. It was different, she thought, when you haven't been sitting here all night, you're sober, and they're all drunk. Rusty finally spied her, waved to her, and then went on. Six songs later, he announced last call, and closed with The Beatles "Eight Days A Week." After most of the crowd left, stuffing the jar full of green paper, he was really turned on. "Steph, playing for a crowd like this gets you going, a real natural high." But she was yawning, not used to the late nights, so he suggested she just drive him back to the motel and call it a night. She realized, however, that he was way too keyed up to go to sleep, so she asked him, "Do you have anything to smoke in your room?" "Yeah, a little Colombian. Good shit. You want some?" "Sure." She came into the room, sat on the bed and watched him as he got his stash out and rolled a joint. He lit it and offered her the first hit, then he took one. He tried to tell her what it was like to get the crowd going, to move them. She figured this was what he was all about, and she liked what she saw. He lit the second joint, but teased her, falling back on the bed, and told her to come get it if she wanted it. By now she was a little high, so when she tried to pull it out of his hand, she stumbled and fell on top of him. Their faces were just a few inches apart, and Stephanie couldn't help herself. She kissed him, and then she kissed him again. She put his hand on his chest, feeling it, and then opened the shirt so she could kiss it. He just lay there, accepting what she was doing, and didn't make a move for her. She didn't know why he was reluctant, but she didn't care. She took her blouse and bra off, then laid back down on him, kissing him. This time, he participated, feeling the breast, kissing it, rolling her over so that he was on top of her. It was glorious. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped. "Stephanie, you sure about this?" "What do you mean? Don't you want me" "Oh, yes, I want you, I have since you came into the place Wednesday night, but, listen, what about your husband?" "Don't worry about him." He looked her in the eyes, deep into them and asked, "You sure? We could be getting into something heavy here." "I'm sure," she responded. "Now make love to me." And he did. This man, unlike Chuck, was experienced, had been with a lot of women, knew what they liked, and how to excite them. By the time he'd undressed her and worshiped her breasts and vagina, she was flushed with excitement. When he revealed his manhood, she noticed it was bigger, fully an inch longer than Glenn's, and she wanted, more than anything, to discover what it would feel like inside of her. Still he waited, playing with her, finger fucking her, telling her how beautiful she was, and when he finally climbed on top of her and entered her gracefully, she was screaming in desire. He seemed to know how to position his legs so that he obtained the maximum pressure on her sensitive clitoris, and she came and came and came, thinking about how he filled her more than the other men she'd been with. They repositioned, and he took her doggy style, pounding into her from the rear, reaching around to nip a teat, keeping her in climax. When he finally came, he moaned, first softly, then increasing the volume, with the sound of a human siren. When he'd had enough, they got under the covers and he felt her eyes, her nose with his thumb. "You okay?" he asked. "Never better." "I'm glad, I wanted it to be good for you." They slept. When the sunlight whitened the drab curtain, she woke and gazed at the man sleeping next to her. Another new experience, she thought, she'd never spent all night with a man other than Glenn. She put a naked leg over his stomach, feeling his warmth, and put her face next to his, smelling him, letting her cheek be tickled by his whiskers. Happy to be there, she let herself go back to sleep. The next time she came to consciousness, they were curled up like spoons, his front to her back, he was stroking her shoulder and arm. She turned to him and they began to kiss. Gently, lovingly, they touched chins, bellys, legs, fingers, and, of course, boobs, dick and pussy. Through some iteration of movement, she found that they'd entered sixty-nine, and as he played with the layers of folds and sniffed her natural perfume, she loved his rod, feeling it on her cheek, watching it harden with each bit of attention. Later, after they'd unhurriedly faced each other, she climbed on top of him and felt his length fill her up. She liked the sensation that he was long enough to stay within her-she was often concerned with Glenn that he'd slip out of her in that position. Slowly, deftly, she sank on him and alternatively lifted up, watching the passion in his eyes. For a few moments she was so mesmerized by his reactions that she simply forgot about her own wants, happy to just pleasure him. But then he, having similar emotions, put a hand between them and inflamed her button, kindling sparks and then stars within her. And, of course, once she was moaning and groaning, he let himself go. After they'd collapsed and rested, he began to kid her. "What do you think of my palatial digs," he asked, gesturing to the stains on the shag carpet, the cigarette burns on the furniture. "I love what you've done with it," she replied. "Want to take a shower?" "You go first, I need caffeine." He threw on a pair of jeans and a long sleeve shirt and headed out the door. She moved into the bathroom, trying not to bump into the toilet which, she decided, hadn't been 'sterilized' recently, and turned the water on. By the time the shampoo was rinsed from her hair and the pits and groin were thoroughly scrubbed he was back, drying her off with the thin, worn towel, throwing her clothes at her, and giving her mouthwash from his kit so she could freshen her breath. Then he showed her breakfast-a cup of coffee for each of them (the darling had brought envelopes of both CoffeeMate and sugar for her; he didn't know her preferences yet,) and a paper sack from Jack In The Box containing breakfast sandwiches. They sat on the bed, she dressed only in a towel wrapped around her wet hair, he in his undershorts, and munched on the provisions. In a strange way, it was almost a domestic scene. "My turn," he said, and jumped into the shower. While he took care of himself, she combed her hair, used his deodorant, and put her clothes on. When she put her wristwatch on, she noticed that it was only 10:30. "You busy today, or do you want to do something together?" he asked. "No, I'm free. You want to go back into San Francisco?" "I should, the tourists will be lining up to pay me to play 'Heart' and 'Flowers,' but I don't want to; I'd rather be with you. Have you ever been over to Muir Beach? I hear it's a really cool scene." "No. I've been up to Stinson a bunch of times, but never Muir." "You want to go?" "Sure." First, they drove up to her apartment, where she packed up her beach stuff and a lunch and he looked at the pictures of her family and Glenn, and then they took off, over the San Rafael Bridge into Marin County, and then on the switchbacked road through the mountains until they hit the shore. Rusty threw the gatekeeper a couple of bucks, and he warned them, "Straights are over to the left, don't mess with them, man." "No sweat." "Rusty, what did he mean? A gay beach?" "You don't know about this place?" Seeing that she had no idea, he continued, "Hey, I'm sorry about that. This is a nude beach. I figured you'd heard. If you're not comfortable, we can go over to the side where they wear clothes." The idea of exposing herself to the open air had always been appealing to her, but she'd never acted upon it. Glenn had talked about it once, looking over a cliff in Big Sur, trying to get a glimpse of nude breasts, but she hadn't taken him seriously. "Let's give it a try. We can always leave if we don't like it, right?" she agreed. After they'd found a cove protected from the relentless wind to spread the blanket, Rusty shucked his clothes and looked around. To Stephanie, he seemed to be a god observing his creation, his tanned skin glowing, hair waving in the breeze. She wanted to be his goddess, and unashamedly joined him in his state of undress. Leaving their possessions behind, they walked the beach hand in hand, tiptoeing into the cold surf, joining a volleyball game. Stephanie had never felt so free, and she tried to explain her emotions to Rusty. He seemed to understand. "This is what the Guess Who meant when they sang, 'Share The Land,'" he explained. He unpacked his guitar and began strumming. Two other couples sat nearby, they turned to listen. After he'd played a bit of Croce and then one of his own tunes, one of the guys said, "You're good, man!" "Thanks," Rusty replied. "What would you like to hear?" "How about some Dylan?," a woman responded. As Rusty picked out the opening strains of 'All I Really Want To Do,' the foursome came over. After the song, they introduced themselves, pouring wine into cups for them. Steph felt odd, shaking hands with naked women, nude men that would never be her lovers, and she tried to keep her legs together to keep a trace of modesty. But soon she observed that the other women didn't seem to care, one of them sat crosslegged facing Rusty. Stephanie decided it was nothing to get uptight about so she relaxed, not caring if the other men looked at her pussy or not. The scent of sex was in the air as marijuana was passed from one hand to the next. The other men looked at Stephanie frankly, and she stared back, enjoying the bronze torsos. It was obvious they were regulars here, there were no lines separating the tan from the white, such as she and Rusty displayed. One of the women suggested more suntan lotion for Steph-her bleached skin would burn easily. When Steph stood to apply it to her stomach and rear, she saw the men divert their gaze without conviction; they were enjoying the view, and she realized she liked being looked at. And yes, Steph compared the flaccid penises to the one she'd enjoyed recently. They seemed to be smaller, thinner. And Rusty looked at the exposed breasts and vaginal areas of the other women. They had both shaved their pubic hair more than Steph, and she frankly admired how one of the women had just a thin strip accenting the protruding pussy lips. Steph laid back, shutting her eyes, listening to Rusty's guitar and voice blending with the sound of the crashing surf and the seagulls' noisily cawing overhead. Wouldn't it be nice, she thought, if the six could stay here all night? They would make love, she was sure. Would they swap partners? Would Rusty like doing it with the tall blonde? Would she enjoy the feeling of the other men entering her as Rusty watched her from the embraces of the other women? After twelve or fifteen songs were sung, Rusty was tired of practicing and packed the guitar away. They other couples returned to their piles of stuff, leaving the rest of the jug as a token of their enjoyment. In a moment of weakness, (or was it strength?) Steph rolled onto Rusty and kissed him. He touched her rear end tenderly, and for a few minutes she hoped he'd take her there, on the beach, with dozens of people watching them make love, but he made no move to further the romance, and she desisted. After three hours or so of the revelry, Rusty suggested they head on back. He had to be on the stage at 7:00, and he'd never been late for an engagement in his life. Steph sat with him as he sang his songs, mellower ones for a Sunday night crowd, sad ones for the couples that had spent the weekend together and would be leaving each other soon, happy ones for the people who'd stay together once the workweek started. "It's not that I don't love your digs," she told him after the show was over, "but I think I'd rather sleep at my place tonight." She watched as his face crumbled. "What's wrong?" "I guess I thought we were getting along pretty well, that's all," he explained. "Oh, my dear, come with me. What's mine is yours." At that he smiled, and they spent the long night in her bed, cuddling to each other, talking of their hopes and needs, making love. The alarm clock rang at an entirely obscene hour, and Steph toddled off to the shower and sink. As she opened the tab on her birth control pill, something bothered her. She walked into the kitchen and compared the numbered wheel to the date on the calendar; shit, she'd forgot all about it yesterday! Oh, well, nothing she could do now, and besides, the chances of her catching were a hundred to one. She took today's, throwing yesterday's in the trash can. As she donned slacks and shirt for the daily grind, Rusty watched her from the safety of the covers. "You look good. Come on back." She giggled. "If I do, I'll never make it to work. What are you going to do today?" "I don't know. Go back to my room, maybe." "Why don't you check out of there?" "Are you suggesting I stay here?" "I'd really like to see you when I get home tonight." "I'll be here." And he was, reading philosophy on the patio. He followed her into the bedroom and helped her undress. Of course, he tickled her, excited her, and they quickly found themselves intertwined on top of the bed. As she begged him to come inside of her, she looked to the side, to the two portraits hanging on the wall. 'Glenn doesn't matter anymore,' she tried to tell herself, and concentrated on the man, the lover, inside of her, on top of her, but the crucial moment had passed, and she let him come without joining him. "Are you okay, babe?" Rusty asked. "I'm fine, why?" "You just didn't seem to be with me." "I just got distracted, that's all. Nothing you did wrong." And she kissed him tenderly, trying to face away from the picture. Since he had the night off, they took off for a Mexican joint she liked. Seated at a cheap table over a linoleum floor, they dined on enchiladas, burritos, refried beans and margaritas, laughing, feeding each other. At sunset, they walked the shores of Lake Merrit, watching the water reflect the pinks and oranges in the sky. "Steph, listen, I don't want to ruin this, but I have to talk about something." She stayed quiet, wondering what was on his mind. "It isn't that I've never bedded a married woman before, but this time it's different. You know that, don't you? You can feel what's happening, can't you?" She pulled his hand to her face, feeling the hair on the back with her cheek, kissing his knuckle. "Yes, I feel it." "Well, what are we going to do about your husband?" "He's far away. He won't bother us." "Not today, not next week, but sooner or later . . ." "Are you planning on staying? I thought you'd be gone soon." "I called my agent, asked him to pick up some more gigs for me in the Bay Area. He thinks he can get me an extended run at the Harbor House; the manager was really happy with me this weekend." "Honey, my husband won't be back till spring. Let's not talk about that anymore." For a few minutes Rusty didn't look happy, but he figured she needed her space, left her alone. When they got back to the apartment, Steph disappeared into the bedroom. She took the pictures of Glenn, her family, stuffed them into the closet. Then she emptied one of her drawers and dragged Rusty into the room. "This is yours, sweetheart. Put anything you want in it." They sat together on the couch, listening to the radio. Suddenly he sat up. "That's new," he said, listening intently to Stephen Stills. After the song ended, he turned the volume down and proceeded to pick out the tune on his stings. He had some of the words, hummed the rest. Within ten minutes, he was playing the chords confidently. "I'll get the rest of the words the next time they play it." "What about your job this week?" Steph asked. "I'm on for cocktail and early dinner tomorrow, 8 to 1 Wednesday to Saturday, 7 to 11 on Sunday, then the landlord pays me off. Normal stuff. All I have to do is figure out which bus gets me from here to there." "I'll take you there, pick you up," she promised, "or you can take the car and wake me up when you get home." "It gets late sometimes." They moved into a predictable pattern, she working during the day, spending a couple of hours or so before the show, listening to the first hour of it, returning to the apartment to write a quick note to Glenn, catching a nap, then picking Rusty up at the bar. Then the best part of the day, undressing for him, watching the hunger in his eyes, and finally gorging herself with his body. They didn't talk about the future, they had only today, and that was enough. Wednesday night, when Rusty was at the club, Joann stopped over. Some of Rusty's things were lying around; it was obvious something was going on. "You okay, Steph?" "Fine," she said, a little defiantly. "Okay," Joann said, not challenging her. They got beers out of the refrigerator, and went out to talk on the patio. "Can I tell you something?" Joann began. "You probably think I'm the perfect wife, don't you?" It was true, she was the one who always put the parties together. She was forever hugging her husband-when he was around. "Well, last year, after the ship was gone about four months, an insurance salesman knocked on my door. He was cute, and I let him come in. He started telling me about his policies, and, well, I bought one, and a lot more." Stephanie didn't quite get it. "What do you mean?" "Hell, I fell in love with him. Took him to bed that night. He's married, and he came over once or twice a week to take care of me." "I never knew!" Steph explained. "You weren't supposed to. After awhile he started talking about leaving his wife, and how we'd run off and get married. For awhile I thought we were really going to do it. Then the ship was on its way back, and I pressed him, told him we'd better do it if we were going to. He said he had some details to take care of, his kids needed him. I told him to get the hell out." "Did you tell Bill about it?" "Of course not. Haven't told anyone, you're the first." "But you seemed so happy when Bill got back!" "I was. I realized when he pulled into port that I loved Bill, didn't love the twerp. That it was all a mistake. I did everything Bill wanted. It was a great three months while they were home." "That's great, Joann. Now you know what you've got, and . . ." "Steph, he called me last week." Her face revealed the melancholy. "It just gets so lonely out here." For awhile they shared a good cry, holding each other. Then Steph got them another beer, and Joann had wiped her eyes by the time she got back. "Hon, you've got a guy here, don't you?" "Yeah. You remember that singer at the Harbor House last week?" Steph took a few minutes, told Joann how she'd been smitten, how happy she was. "I'm glad for you, dear. But listen, don't get too used to it . . . It's not safe." Saturday morning, Rusty announced he needed to go back into San Francisco, do the tourist thing. "Bread's getting a little thin." For five hours he stood and played, picking up nearly $40, and Stephanie stayed right by him, watching him, enjoying him. After the show was over that night, they got invited to a party that someone was throwing up in the hills. They stayed all night, drinking and smoking, talking to the beautiful people. When they passed the hot tub, they noticed it was filled with people, so they took off their clothes and jumped in. After awhile a couple got out, went over to a lounge chair and began to screw. Steph watched them in awe, enjoying the site of the man's penis entering the woman over and over again. It turned her on, and she took Rusty to a corner of the deck secluded by palm bushes, and they made love. A group of men and one woman peeked, and Stephanie didn't care. Late the next morning, the phone rang. Steph ran out to answer it. A strange male voice asked, "Is Rusty Newland there?" "Just a minute." When Rusty responded to her call, she began to make coffee for them. She couldn't help but hear his end of the conversation. "Hello . . . . Oh, hi, Jeff ." ("It's my agent," he whispered to her.) "Yeah, it's great . . . . Clapton? You're shitting me . . . . That's fantastic . . . . I don't know if I can make it . . . . Well, I'm sort of hung up here . . . . " (a very long pause, Steph could tell the agent was making a long, involved deal.) "Tell you what, let me think about it . . . I understand, either I'm there or I'm not . . . . The ticket's refundable isn't it? Then don't worry about it . . . . I can't make any promises, I need to think . . . . All right, I'll call you first thing in the morning . . . . I promise. Take it easy, okay . . . . Oh, and thanks, Jeff, you're the best." "What was that about?" Stephanie asked him. "Nothing." He seemed to close a piece of himself to her, to withdraw. "Did he find you another gig?" "Don't worry about it," he insisted. She walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind her, enclosing her fears. Again they went to the cable car turnaround, but Rusty was having trouble connecting with the crowd, singing a little sadly. After an hour and a half in which he only got two or three dollars worth of dimes, they packed it in and went to a bar. "If you want to tell me about it, I'll listen," Steph told him. "I guess I've got to let you know sometime. Remember that band I told you about? Well, they're gonna put it together in New York. They want me for rhythm and back up vocals. First rehearsal is on Wednesday, Eric Clapton's gonna come in the next day and see what we've got. He might wind up being the front man." Steph understood what was being said. "So you'll be leaving?" "I don't want to go, believe me." "I want you to stay, too. But if you don't go . . ." On the way back across the Bay Bridge, Rusty looked at the aircraft carriers. "Steph, do you love your old man?" "What?" "Your husband. Do you love him?" "Yes, I do. Very much." "How 'bout me?" "You know I love you, too. I don't think I really want to make a choice." As they made love that night, Stephanie treated him a little more tenderly, and when he was on top of her, fully inside her, she wondered, "How many more times?" The next day, Monday, Stephanie silenced the alarm, and refused to leave Rusty. 'Too little time,' she thought, 'soon he'll be gone. I can't waste a minute.' When the office opened, she called in sick. Mr. Donegal accepted the explanation of a bad cold. Her work record, except for the single tardiness, had been perfect. "Get up," she called to Rusty, "I've got plans for you." After cereal, she packed the beach toys and they drove once again across the bay, over the mountains, to the sea. Rusty expected her to pull into Muir Beach, but instead she turned north. Down the cliff overlooking Stinson, still she drove. And then, the gate that said 'Point Reyes National Seashore." Another fifteen minutes, and they rode along a ridge, a bay and bright sunshine to their left, a deep fog to their right. Five miles later, she turned the car into the mist and slowly drove down the hill to a parking lot large enough for a hundred cars, empty but for the Volkswagen. They got out, glad to be through with the long drive, and heard the rhythmic pounding of the huge waves, unseen even though they were only fifty yards away. They donned ponchos and began a long, steady hike to the west, marveling at the height of the waves spurred by a storm five hundred miles out to sea, listening to the wind whip the sea grasses, stung by sand flying in the breeze. A mile on a beach is a long way, the walking difficult and tedious. Stephanie discovered a perfect abalone shell. They seemed to be the only people in the world, alone in the vapor. Finding shelter from the tempest in a pile of abandoned logs, they rested. Here, in this sunken grove bordered by driftwood and stunted bushes, they hungered for each other. Quickly they stripped each other of their sweaters, jeans, and shoes. When they were undressed, she placed her back on the sand and accepted him on top of her. Slowly he placed himself at her entrance, and again they were one, completely linked, and they satisfied each other, understanding their mental as well as their physical needs, climaxing together. Naked in the mist, Stephanie asked for the truth. "Rusty, have you decided yet?" "No, not really. I think this could be the opportunity of a lifetime." "Not very many people get the chance to work with Eric Clapton, I guess." "I wasn't speaking of him. I was thinking of you." "Me?" she questioned. "Yes, you. I love you, Stephanie." She winced at the words, the most beautiful, most hurtful she'd ever heard. He pulled her to him, cuddled her. "If only it weren't so complicated." "My husband, you mean?" "Yes, there's that." "And your girlfriend." "My girlfriend?" He seemed for a minute to be confused. "Oh, that. Honey, that's the only lie I've ever told you. I don't really have a girlfriend in Boston. Oh, I did, but I haven't seen her in two years. I hear she's getting married." "Then why did you tell me you did?" "When I pick a girl up, I tell her that; it makes it easy to leave the next morning." "Or the next week." He hung his head, ashamed of his ruse. "But that first night, the night you told me, you didn't invite me into your room." "Would you have come?" "I don't know. Maybe." "That's it. I knew then you were different, I didn't want it to be a one-night stand." She felt complimented by the story, but a decision had to be made. "Rusty, you should go to New York. You've waited so long for this break, this could be the big time." "I want to stay with you." "I want you to stay, too. But I also want to see your name on the cover of an album, and to hear your voice recorded for all time. If you don't leave now, you'll wind up regretting it. Then you'll blame me sooner or later." "Never." "Yes, you will." "Then come with me." "Just leave Glenn?" She hadn't thought of that option. She could help Rusty make his name, be his groupie. "But what would I do while you were making music? And when you go on the road, will I sit and wait for you? That's no different than my life now." "Don't make a snap decision. Think about it. I love you so much, and I don't want to lose you." By now, they were cold, from the wind, and from the conversation, and they dressed. A long walk back, never letting go, both afraid if they lost contact the wind would blow the other away into the fog. They drove to the other side of the peninsula, climbed the cliffs over Sir Francis Drake Bay, ate cheese and bread, drank wine. High in the meadow, Rusty got his guitar out and began to serenade her with love songs: "Love City" by Peter, Paul and Mary, Elton John's "Your Song," Glenn Campbell's "Gentle On My Mind." Then he began another song she'd never heard before. 'In Northern California, down along above the sea My woman dwells in wonder, her name is Stephanie. Endearment is the watchword, allurement is the key Peacefulness surrounds the girl, Oh lovely Stephanie.' Stephanie's eyes leaked with joy at the gift, and with despair, because she knew that this love affair would not end sweetly, quietly. By the time they returned from the journey, it was dark. They held each other, silently attempting to decide their fates. The phone rang, it was Rusty's agent. "Hi, Jeff . . . . Yes, I know. I'm sorry about that . . . . What's the last flight tomorrow night . . . . Fine, get me a ticket . . . . I'll see you Wednesday morning . . . . Bye." He came back to her, held her. "You've decided to go," she prophesized. "Yes," he answered pensively. "I'm glad you made your decision. It's the right one." "Now it's time for you to make yours," he told her. She looked at the sofa she'd bought, the books, the stereo, and then her eyes lighted on a trophy. Glenn had won it years ago in a high school science fair, it was his proudest possession. No, that was unfair, she was his proudest possession. "I can't leave with you," she sadly proclaimed. On the morning of his departure, she rose and called in sick again, then went back to lie beside him. For an hour she just looked at him, watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling. His eyes opened, he gazed at her, pulled her to him. They made love one last, final time. "What would you like to do today?" "Can we go back into San Francisco? I'd like to hear you sing once more." Into the car, they found a parking spot near Ghirardelli Square. It was too early for the tourists, so they walked up the hills, around the wharves. Around noon, Rusty set up near the cable car turnaround and started his usual prattle, singing "Heart" and "Flowers" over and over again. She sat on a bench nearby where he could catch her eye, not minding the repetition, happy to have one last afternoon near him. The crowds thinned, they went to a restaurant. Back to his song spot in the twilight, but this time he didn't play for the sightseers, he performed for her. All of her favorites, "You've Got A Friend", "Time In A Bottle", "Love City","Surf and Sun", and, of course, "Stephanie's Song". He never looked at the passersby, not caring if they threw money in the guitar case or not, gazing at her, making love to her through his eyes. The clouds gathered, and a mist began to fall. He wouldn't stop serenading her. With barely an hour left until his flight, he sang one last song for her, one she'd never heard him sing before, Carole King's "Home Again." They held hands tightly on the drive to the airport, suddenly a cloudburst drenched the freeway. "This is the first time I've seen it rain out here." "It hasn't rained for months. It'll be an early winter, it seems." He refused to let her come to the gate. "It's hard enough this way." At the curb, as they held each other for the last time. He asked, "If I come back this way?" "Call me." And he was gone, taking his guitar and suitcase through the sliding doors, she lost sight of him. She couldn't see well on the way back; it was raining much too hard.
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