24. Reed

24

REED

“SEARCHIN’” – THE COASTERS

I do go into work the next day, though I take it easy. I’ve gotten no answer to my email from Sebastian Jones, and Hal doesn’t stop by our cubicle. Jay has a theory that Hal is scared of me now.

It’s just as well, as I’m not doing work for the company today, anyway. I’ve got a research project to focus on.

“Jay, if you had to find a girl, and you had no idea what her name was, no photo of her, and no information other than your memory of her, where would you start looking?”

He spins his chair around. “Bro, you realize you’re insane, right? One week ago you were explaining to me why you were about to marry the perfect woman. Now you’re trying to track down some rando?”

“She’s not a rando. We spent the weekend together. Also, I’m allowed to change my mind. That’s called personal evolution. It’s a sign of maturity, as a matter of fact.”

“Touché. I’ve changed my outlook before.” He thinks a moment. “Okay, you’re in sales. It’s like you need to track down a lead. Also, how the hell did you spend the entire weekend with her and not learn her name?”

“She’s doing this whole rebirth thing, and she doesn’t know if her name will be her name forever, so she didn’t want to share it right now.”

“Dude, that’s got red flag written all over it.”

“Yeah, she’s a little crazy for sure. I liked it, though.”

“Shit, man. I know what you mean. Love the crazy ones. So you didn’t get even a photo with her?”

“Nah, man. We were living in the moment. Wild, I know.”

He shakes his head. “Love that for you. Your generation sucks at that.”

“True story.”

“Sounds like this festival road trip really changed you. I do love that you’re not putting up with Lennie’s shit anymore.”

“What can I say? I learned from the best.”

That night I drive over to where Luna’s van was parked on the north side of the city when we dropped her off, but it’s gone now. I knock on the door of a few nearby houses and ask if they’ve seen a big van out in front with a girl living in it. Two of the houses don’t answer, and two more give me funny stares and slam the door in my face.

So you’re looking for a girl and you don’t even know her name? Okay, buddy.

I head out to Castaways to have a drink by myself and see if, by some dumb luck, Luna is there.

I drink a glass of Malbec and watch everyone playing volleyball on the beach. Eventually I ask the bartender for help. “Do you remember a girl, maybe five foot eight, wavy dark hair, who was drinking wine with her friends here last Thursday? We played beer pong together?”

“Hmmm... Let me think.” She shakes her head after a moment. “Sorry, we get so many people coming through here.”

“I think she’s a bartender,” I say.

She frowns. “You think? Why are you trying to find her anyway? Are you some kind of stalker? Why didn’t you just ask her name?”

“We spent the weekend together at a music festival,” I explain. “But I failed to get her information.”

“You didn’t like her enough to get her number?”

“It’s a long story. Thanks anyway.”

That night, I comb through social media for any tagged photos from places she might have been.

I create a dating profile that explicitly says I’m looking for her and swipe through hundreds—maybe thousands—of photos.

Nothing.

I hit Castaways every evening for a week, in case she decides to show up.

I consider paying a crime sketch artist and putting up fliers in town like you would for a lost cat, but that seems a little ridiculous, so I stop myself. I do have some restraint. I post on Craigslist Missed Connections though. Does anyone use that anymore?

I even go to two different Catholic masses on Sunday—just because of the whole Catholic thread we’d talked about.

But after a while, unfortunately I have to admit that what I’m doing is futile. She could have moved to another state—even country—by now. She strikes me as a free spirit who wouldn’t hesitate to move where the wind takes her. I consider that maybe Luna was meant to be temporary, and like Samantha said, maybe I should just let those memories be what they are, not try to make this into anything else.

It’s true that Luna could have just been a weekend indulgence, but it didn’t feel like some casual encounter. It felt like much, much more than that. I think about the woman I met on the plane, and how she characterized her brief romance with the surfer boy as true love.

Mostly, though, I do my best to let thoughts of Luna go—even if it seems like we have unfinished business—while my daily routine begins to morph into something new. I still work every day—I haven’t been fired for my email, or for not coming into the office, yet—but I lean more into music.

With no girlfriend to call at night now, energy starts to flow back into me in a new way. Instead of treating my songs like a hobby, I take them more seriously. Every morning before (and sometimes during) work I go out on the deck, strum my guitar, and work on writing songs.

I keep thinking about what Luna said to me—that I was as good as any of the musicians at Railfest. The only difference is that they believed they could do it, and then they did. I need to believe in myself, go after what I want. Even if I never get there, at least I’ll have a good time along the way.

Sam comes up in my thoughts from time to time, too, and I wish her well—without reaching out. When I’m feeling low, I listen to Zach Bryan. By the time I’ve made it through his entire discography, I’ve become an official convert.

Now it’s Wednesday again, and I’m on the rooftop deck of Castaways drinking a gin and tonic. I’m sketching out a song in my notebook and talking to my favorite bartender, since I’ve become a regular here. Her name is Amy, and I did eventually tell her my long story. She is only somewhat satisfied with my explanation for not being a stalker.

Anyway, tonight, as I’m sitting at the bar, I get a message from someone I’m very much not expecting: Henry Cooney.

Henry: Hey, man, can you call me? Have some potential business to discuss.

He leaves me his number, and I stare in shock at the message as I process what is happening. Henry Cooney, the king of the Chicago punk folk movement, has business to discuss…with me?

“Holy shit,” I remark to Amy. “Henry Cooney just messaged me.”

“Bullshit, stalker. Now I know you’re full of lies.”

“Look.” I show her my phone.

She gives me a funny look. “Oh my God. Do you know him or something?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Let me guess. Long story?”

“Right.” I grin.

“So you gonna call?”

“Yeah. Hold my drink?”

I head downstairs to the beach where it’s quieter and ring him.

“This is Henry,” he answers with that scruffy, seasoned voice.

“Henry. This is Reed Walker.”

“Oh shit, Reed. You didn’t waste any time.”

“Just being polite. What’s up?”

“Yeah, so we’re playing a gig at the Aragon Ballroom Friday, and our opener just dropped out last second.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“Some weird band drama. Egos, you know? They broke up.”

“Sorry to hear that. So why are you calling me?”

“I was wondering, do you have any more originals?”

“Yeah. A ton.”

“Sweet. What are your thoughts on opening for us?”

My pulse elevates. “You want me to open for the Red Lemons. On Friday.”

“Did I stutter, doofus?”

“No, I’m just processing.”

“You’re shocked? Bro, anyone with your balls, who played a song for us at Railfest, I figured would have the balls to open.”

Somehow I make myself keep talking. “I don’t have a band, though.”

“Which pieces would you need? I know a couple of bum musicians in the area who are always looking for work.”

I stare out at the vast, darkening deep blue expanse of the lake. No full moon tonight, just the light of the city reflecting off of it.

“So you down or what, Reed?”

“I mean, c’mon. Pope shit in the woods?”

“Uhh..what?”

“I mean, is the Pope Catholic? I always mix those up. I’m in, baby!”

He laughs. “That’s my boy. Can you do, like, seven originals? Between thirty and forty-five minutes should cover it. If you go over, no big deal.”

I can feel myself nodding now. “I can muster that up. No problem.”

“Oh, and feel free to bring that girl along to sing on a couple of songs, if you want. What’s her name again?”

“That…is a funny story. I don’t know actually know her name.”

“Ha! That’s epic! Not even gonna ask. All right, I’ll pass your information to my manager, and she’ll get you all the details you need. Sound good?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh, and Reed? One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“You dance with my girl again, and I’ll have to murder you in your sleep.”

“Oh…sorry.”

“I’m just kidding! Bro, you take everything so seriously. But for real, you can’t have mine, so get your own girl. And learn her name this time.” He hangs up, laughing.

I look out at the lake again. What did that woman on the plane say?

There are years where nothing happens, and weeks where years happen. The last two weeks have been two of those weeks for me.

I head back up to the bar and rejoin Amy and my drink.

“So, what’s ‘Henry Cooney’ have to say, stalker?” she says with air quotes.

“He asked me to open for the Red Lemons at the Aragon Ballroom this Friday.”

She shakes her head. “Okay, now I really can’t tell if you’re just making all of this up, or you’re the coolest stalker ever.”

“Maybe you should come Friday and see us—see me.”

“Friday. That’s in two days.”

“Yeah.” I slam the rest of my drink. “I better get to practicing.”

When I get home that night, I listen to every song I’ve ever written until I pass out. In the morning, I start again and find the best seven to record using my voice memo app. I don’t have time for anything else. I send rough tracks to the musicians Henry put me in touch with—a drummer and a bassist in the area.

I’m in the flow, in my room, singing as I move sticky notes around on my whiteboard with the names of the songs on them to determine the setlist, when there’s a knock on my door.

“Dude, can you keep it down?” Mason pops my door open. “I’m trying to work a real job out here. It’s Thursday. Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Nah,” I say, too in the zone for a long explanation of anything.

“Bro, what do you mean nah ? We had an agreement?—”

“I’m playing at the Aragon Ballroom Friday. I’ve nowhere else to do this. So, the agreement changed. You can work out on the deck, if it’s really bugging you.”

“No, dude, this isn’t a debate.”

“You’re right, it isn’t a debate. I don’t bug you about banging your girls, which I can hear through the walls and interrupts my sleep. So don’t interrupt me again about playing music.” I slam the door in his face.

“And you left the butter out!” he yells through the door.

I’ve got such a laser focus right now, I could not be less affected by Mason’s complaints right now. I’m not angry or sad. I’m indifferent.

This really does feel like a new me coming on.