My Next Date

I was completely intimidated the first time my roommate, Peter, bugged me about joining the gym where he worked out. He was a Greek god, an actual model who looked like one of those unreal men on the cover of the magazines I definitely never looked at every time I passed them in the grocery store. Peter worked out twice a day and coached other people in their workouts for another three or four hours. I hadn’t ever met anyone with a body like his, and it was such a waste, especially since we lived together, because he was straight.
Never mind that I thought I was straight too. Yes, I know. I’d had hot man-sex twice and couldn’t get the images of Joseph out of my mind, especially as I lay awake at night wishing his warmth was beside me, but I wanted to be straight.
So I was. For the moment. I thought.
Sigh.
The third or fourth—or tenth—time Peter asked me to go to the gym and start working out, I gave in. I was that skinny kid. You know, the one who could never gain weight. My mom cooked buttery fried goodness most nights, and we drank sweet tea so thick it could give you a cavity just looking at it. It didn’t matter. I could eat anything and never gain a pound.
As strange as that might seem to those who struggle with losing weight, I was insecure about my bean-pole-ness and intimidated by all the perfect people I imagined seeing lifting small houses at the gym. Peter said I should be thankful. He said I had “the perfect body type” for adding muscle, and he was sure he could turn me into something hot if I just put in the work.
It sounded like a lot of work to me.
I tossed my fear and childhood insecurities aside and followed muscle-god roomie like a lost puppy to the gym. It was pretty much what I expected—men with necks bigger than their heads lifting small houses. They tended to congregate in the section with warnings about not lifting too much without a partner. They weren’t just big. They were huge.
Oddly, they were very nice. Every single Popeye acknowledged me with a smile or nod, as if greeting a new brother into their fraternity. I hadn’t expected that.
By the third or fourth week, when it became obvious I wasn’t going to be one of those guys who paid for the membership and never returned, the muscle gods learned my name and greeted me warmly. They offered to spot me and gave me a high-five when I did something particularly painful. It was nice, in a really masochistic way.
One afternoon, I was straining with all my spindly might and noticed a guy I hadn’t seen before. He was running on a treadmill. I blinked through sweat and focused. Blondish-brown hair bounced as he ran, though a few locks stuck to his forehead. He wore a thirsty white tank top that drank every drop of sweat it touched and clung to a ridiculous set of abs. His shoulders glistened as they bobbed. Every time he smiled at a different person who called out his name, his brilliant white teeth lit up that corner of the gym.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t that dramatic, but you get the picture.
Despite his obvious sweat-soaked hotness, Mr. Sweaty Runner caught my eye because every few minutes, a different club member would wander up to him and shake his hand or wave or call out in greeting. Nashville was a town where half the people you met were either students or aspiring musicians. I’d become numb to that scene, and barely kept up with who was famous and who wasn’t. I had no clue who this very popular hottie was.
Peter smacked the back of my head playfully, pulling me back to our side of the gym.
“Enough rest. You’ve been sitting there for at least five minutes. Let’s go.”
I wanted to toss the weights at him, but that would’ve required lifting them and he would’ve won, so I asked about hottie instead. “Is that guy up there famous or something? Everybody seems to know him.”
Peter grunted. “Yeah, he’s a singer, or wants to be. Nice enough guy. Welcome to Nashville.”
With that, Peter grabbed my wrists and hoisted them to the bar dangling over my head, giving me no choice but to resume the lat-straining-torture-thing.
Don’t hurt yourself on all my technical terms. I try to be precise.
***
A week passed, and I saw Singer Boy at the gym nearly every day, his flock of women—and men—trailing him from treadmill to bicep curl, trying to look like they weren’t following his every move. It was pretty funny to watch. When one of his loyal geese would catch me watching, their head would whip in the other direction, and they’d magically find the need to work a random body part not on that day’s rotation.
Singer Boy never seemed to notice. He just kept working out and flashing his pearly whites.
Peter and I got to the gym late Friday afternoon. Singer Boy had already showered and changed into tight, faded jeans and a clingy black T-shirt. The black made his green eyes leap out. Holy cow, they were really green.
Anyway.
I had just finished a set on the leg-press-device-of-death when someone walked up to Peter. I was facing the wall and couldn’t see who it was.
“Hey, Peter. I’ve got a gig tonight at Rowdie’s. A big producer promised he’d be there, so I really need a good crowd. Can I count you in?”
There was a crinkling of paper, probably a flyer.
“I’ll try,” Peter said in a tone I knew meant he wouldn’t go anywhere near Rowdie’s.
“Thanks. This could be my big break if it works out. It’s been a long time coming.”
“Good luck,” Peter said, followed by the distinct sound of paper being stuffed into a pocket. He turned back to me. “Again. Two more sets.”
I hated Peter sometimes.
An hour later, I staggered into our apartment, thighs ablaze with leg-day pain, and threw myself onto the couch. Peter trotted in without the slightest hint of soreness.
Again with the hating Peter thing.
He tossed his keys on the counter, then emptied his pockets. I looked up.
“What’s that?” I asked, indicating the wadded-up paper he’d dropped by his keys.
He hurled the wad into my head. “That wannabe-famous guy at the gym is playing some bar tonight. He says there’s a producer going, and it might be his big break. Same story, different night.”
That got my attention. “Are you going?”
He laughed. “Nope. I hate bars. Go if you want to. I don’t think he cares who’s there, just that there’s a crowd.”
I stared blankly. I’d never been to a bar. Weren’t they the den of evil and the birthplace of sin? People drank alcohol there. I’d never had alcohol either.
Did you forget already? I was raised by wolves.
“That’s OK. Bars aren’t my thing either,” I said weakly, wanting desperately to see Singer Boy in his element and find out if bars were really as vile as I had been taught.
“Whatever. I’m meeting Jen for a late bite. We might grab a movie after. See you later.”
Jen was Peter’s on-and-off girlfriend. At the moment, she was on.
As soon as the door slammed shut and Peter’s footfalls faded into the night, I smoothed the flyer against my leg and held it up. Singer Boy’s set started in an hour.
I had to move.
***
I walked into Rowdie’s and blinked a few times so my eyes could adjust to the dim light. The aroma of cigarettes tickled my nose. There were ten, maybe fifteen round high-top tables scattered about, with a brightly lit, makeshift stage holding court from one end of the room. From the flyer and Singer Boy’s perma-smile at the gym, I had expected the place to be packed. I was the fifth person to enter. Only seven total would show up. So much for a roaring crowd.
I looked nervously around and picked a table near the back, as far from the stage and other people as I could get. A perky waitress wandered by and giggled when I ordered a Coke. Was that not OK in a bar?
A moment later, Coke in hand, my eyes darted from stage to bar, taking in every detail. This den of ill repute seemed awfully tame. People weren’t humping or fighting. They were just sitting and drinking, some eating, enjoying themselves. Interesting.
“Mind if I sit with you?” A voice startled me.
I looked up to find a man with short dark hair and kind eyes blinking at me. His short crop revealed a faint dusting of gray that intruded around his temples.
“I’m Dwayne,” he said, extending a hand. Were we supposed to shake hands in a bar? Was this a business thing? I shook it, and he sat without waiting for permission. “Thanks. I hate sitting up front at these things. How do you know Jason?”
For the second time, I was startled. “Jason?”
“The singer. He’s supposed to start any minute, but he’s always late.” He chuckled.
Singer Boy’s name was Jason. Check.
“Oh, I don’t really know him. We work out at the same gym. He was making the rounds today, handing out these flyers, and I thought I’d check it out.” I tried to sound disinterested and casual.
Dwayne looked down at the flyer I had tossed on the table and smiled. “I helped him make those. He’s definitely not shy.”
Before I could answer, Jason raced up to our table and wrapped Dwayne in a big hug. “Thank you for coming. I’m so nervous.” His head swiveled as he scanned the room. “Mr. Best isn’t here yet, but he promised he’d come. Dwayne, this could be the night.”
He sounded giddy. I guess that was to be expected. Back then, there was no American Idol or The Voice, or any other competition show that vaulted unknown artists into stardom. To be discovered, you had to actually be discovered. It was nearly impossible. If I had been a singer with a shot at a producer, I would’ve been giddy too.
Dwayne finally turned and introduced me. I reminded Jason about the gym, and he nodded as if he actually remembered seeing me among his throng. He clearly didn’t. Then he vanished to prepare for his time on stage.
I caught Dwane watching the interaction with more than passing interest. I guess my stare lingered on Jason’s jeans a little too long as he walked away, because he said, “You like him?”
Startle number three.
“Uh, I guess. I mean, um, I don’t know him or anything. He seems like a nice guy.” I was articulate.
Dwayne chuckled and peered over his glass of Jack and Coke. A second glass filled with limes sat next to it. He would squeeze a lime into his drink after every sip; there had to be as much lime in there as there was Coke. Was this normal bar behavior? No one else seemed to be doing it. Weird.
Thankfully, the stage lights flashed as Jason stepped up to the mic, saving me from further examination. I got the feeling Dwayne didn’t miss much.
Jason sounded good. I mean, really good.
He played guitar and sang songs he’d written himself. When Dwayne told me he would perform his own work, I’d groaned inwardly, expecting a long evening of bad music. But this guy had talent. He sang about love and loss, and lost love, and love he wished he hadn’t lost, and love he was glad he lost—then a song about a lake in a town where he met someone he loved and lost.
My keen sense of observation picked up a theme, but it still sounded good.
The more I watched and listened, the better he looked.
What was it about performers, especially singers, that made them so much more alluring the minute they stepped behind a microphone? Jason didn’t get all dressed up or wear makeup or anything, but on that stage, under the annoyingly bright lights zip-tied to the bar’s ceiling, he looked even better than he had in the gym that first day. Now that his hair wasn’t a sweaty, matted mess, I could see how it curled slightly at the ends and waved in the air from the vent above the stage. It wasn’t quite Marilyn and her white dress, but it was nice.
He was dreamy, and he was singing.
A couple times he actually looked over at our table and flashed that broad, incredibly warm smile I’d seen him give others a hundred times at the gym. I tried not to swoon, then realized he was smiling at Dwayne, acknowledging his friend and some secret meaning hidden within the tune.
For his part, Dwayne barely spoke throughout the evening, but I caught him watching me a few times, a catlike grin playing across his weathered face.
When Jason wrapped and the stage finally fell quiet, the lights in the bar gradually brightened. Dwayne stifled a yawn into his elbow and looked up. “What did you think?”
“He’s great. I’m surprised he hasn’t got a record deal yet,” I said.
Dwayne laughed sardonically. “That’s the dream, but he’s been doing this for years. I think if it was going to happen, it would’ve by now.”
“What about the producer tonight?”
He shook his head. “Never showed. Again, that happens all the time. They promise, get the performer all excited, then stand them up. It’s sad, really.”
“Huh.” I’d never known anyone trying to make it in music. This was news to me.
Dwayne yawned again. “There’s a group of us going out after this. You should join us.”
It was already eleven o’clock. Where could anyone possibly go at that hour on a Friday night? I was baffled.
It must’ve shown on my face because Dwayne chuckled. His eyes held that amused, knowing gaze of one who’d discovered a baby learning to walk—or at least realizing that walking was a thing. I hadn’t even tried to stand yet, much less walk.
“It’s just a few of us going to celebrate with Jason on his big performance. We were going to celebrate the producer, but he’s still AWOL. Come have a drink.”
“Alright. I guess.” I didn’t even think to ask where we were going. If it was to have a drink, I assumed another bar. My first night was turning into a two-fer. Look at me, becoming a Coke-drinking barfly stud.
Jason stopped by and gave Dwayne another hug. He sure hugged a lot. He acknowledged me with a quick smile and thanked me for coming. I don’t think he remembered my name or how we knew each other—again. So much for validation.
I climbed into Betty, my cooler-than-cool Saturn sedan, and followed Dwayne’s eight-hundred-year-old Toyota something-or-other. It was small, zippy, and thoroughly covered in rust—but who was I to judge? It was easy to follow because nothing else looked like it.
We drove for twenty minutes before I realized I was thoroughly lost. I’d never been in this part of town before. It was one of those industrial parks with long, low, sprawling buildings. From an airplane’s view, they almost looked like bugs, with all the trailers pulled up to the loading docks serving as legs. Were we going to a warehouse? Who’d put a bar all the way out here?
We finally pulled into a massive parking lot. There were hundreds of cars already cooling. I looked for signage or anything that might tell me where we were, but there was nothing. The building before us was as nondescript as every other factory or warehouse around, save for the line of a dozen people waiting to enter.
I parked and found Dwayne waiting for me near the entrance.
“Ready? The others already went inside. We’ll meet up in the country bar.”
“Country bar?” I asked.
He nodded. “This is more of a complex than a bar. You’ll see.”
We waited our turn. I tried not to wince as the doorman held out a palm and said, “Welcome to the Connection. Five bucks.”
Ever-observant Dwayne noticed and waved me off, paying my fee. “My invite, my treat.”
That was nice.
As we entered, my head spun. We walked through giant double doors into a wide hallway that could squeeze a dozen people shoulder to shoulder without touching the sides. It was packed. We could barely move, and the mass of quickly heating bodies was inching forward. A thunderous rhythm pulsed from somewhere ahead, and I could make out flashes of light through an opening thirty or so yards away.
We got about halfway down the hallway when Dwayne grabbed my arm and pulled me through an opening on the left side. The booming bass was replaced by a happy, twangy tune better played in a Western movie than a bar in the industrial heart of Nashville. The crowd thinned, and tight-fitting T-shirts and tank tops were replaced by gaudy buckles and fringy tops with silver buttons. Walking through that opening, we literally set foot onto a different planet, one filled with country music and very country patrons.
“What do you want to drink?” Dwayne’s voice snapped me back to him.
“Coke, thanks.”
He shook his head and chuckled. “Come help me. I’ll need an extra hand.”
I followed and waited with him in the queue that was only a few men deep. As we stood there, something struck, and I turned to Dwayne. “Where are all the women?”
He looked up at me with a furrowed brow. “What?”
“The women. I don’t see any in here. Looks like some of the guys had to dance with each other because there aren’t any girls here yet.”
In that moment, Dwayne gave me a look I’ll never forget. His eyes flew wide, and his mouth twitched between a smile and a frozen ‘O’ shape, as if he couldn’t decide—or believe—what was standing in front of him. Maybe it was what I asked, or maybe I had something in my teeth. I’d never seen anyone look so utterly baffled.
Then he doubled over and gripped his sides.
When he righted himself, tears were streaming down his cheeks. He saw me gaping, and his laughter grew into near hyperventilation. Some of the guys standing around us turned to see what was so funny. I shrugged, dumbfounded.
By the time he managed to suck in enough air to breathe again, we stood before a bemused bartender wearing a foot-tall cowboy hat and leather vest. He’d forgotten his shirt; a furry, muscular chest poked through.
Dwayne turned to me and wiped his eyes. “You’re going to need a real drink tonight. Trust me, Coke isn’t going to cut it.”