Friday

Mom arrived in the afternoon. From my doorway, I listened to her suitcase wheels roll across the lobby floor, her focused breaths as she climbed the stairs. She had texted that she wanted to drop her bag off and take a walk. Those planes were a nightmare for her knees. On Kedzie Avenue, we passed imposing, cream brick apartment buildings with big bay windows. In one, an orange and white cat stood on its back legs, paws on the glass.

“So, are there any young men in the picture?” she asked. As if this kind of talk came easily to us.

“Sort of.”

“Oh?”

“He’s not like, my boyfriend or anything.”

“Oh.”

Brian. We had been seeing each other for almost three months. The sex was pretty good, he was down to hang out almost every week, and he had downloaded the entire Sopranos onto his laptop. In January, in Chicago, this all added up to something that might get you to spring.

A familiar heat on my neck and cheeks. I knew it was silly, Mom had barely said anything. And yet. There was something so fundamentally irritating about her face, eyes alert and lips pulled together, tight with the strain of trying to find just the right words, of holding all the wrong words back. I told her Brian was a drummer. His band was playing at a bar around the corner on Saturday. If we wanted to check it out.

“I just don’t want you to think this is some big introduction,” I said. “It’s pretty casual.”

The wind picked up. Mom opened her coat and tucked her scarf.

“I understand. You know, Alma, you’re not the first woman to ever date casually.”

We did not talk for the next block and a half. Two teenagers sat at the base of the Logan Square monument, skateboards at their feet. One played a video on his phone and they laughed at the sounds of tinny, distant screams.

“Well how about this,” Mom said. The monument was a giant stone column. It made a good case for the theory that, if one could not come up with a new or interesting sculptural idea to honor the memory of a given cause, a big enough column might just get the point across. “When is it from?”

“I have no clue.” I watched her eyes scan the column, hungry for a plaque.

Saturday

From the bathroom, the sound of water running, the occasional falsetto snatch of Joni Mitchell.

I texted Brian. Our last messages were from Wednesday. A photo of a dog he was dog-sitting, a photo of an empty spot on my couch where I’d drawn a scary dog-like creature in red.

Gettin ready now, I texted. Should be there 20ish before u guys go on.

Cool. Zach is microdosing rn so should be interesting lol. A pause. Three bubbles danced below the message. Calling it a thought experiment. Cowboy emoji.

Mom came out in a towel. Her shoulders were wet.

“God that feels good,” she said. “What’s that soap you have in there, rosemary?  It’s lovely.”

“I got it at the farmer’s market.”

“I’d love to get some to bring back.”

“We can go tomorrow if you want. I’m just gonna –” I pointed to the bathroom.

The mirror was steamed with her heat. I felt the strong desire for a drink. When I came out, wrapped in my only other towel, she was lying on the bed, dressed, blue phone light illuminating her glasses.

“Because bars of soap are considered solids rather than liquids, they are not subject to the same rules as liquid items and the TSA puts no restrictions on bringing them through security,” she said in the stilted voice people use when reading aloud. “So, there you are. I can take that soap home.” She put her phone down and took off her glasses. “Well look at you, clean bean.”

Mom was worried about being too old for the bar. I knew because she mentioned it as I got dressed, as we had our drinks in the living room, as we walked over. I told her she was worrying about nothing, people her age went to these kinds of places all the time. But as we got closer, I felt embarrassment in its purest, teenage form percolating in my stomach. I was young and she was old, she was my mom. Moms were for home. Their essential mom-ness made them unfit for the wild.

The crowd around the horseshoe bar was two-deep. Dozens of mouths released hot noises into the semi-darkness, fuzzy with low yellow light. There was a vacant stool in the corner, and I motioned for her to follow me. Pushing through the bodies, I heard her oh’s and sorry’s but I fought the urge to grab her and pull her along.

“Goodness,” she said, finally seated. She looked around, her neck long and fragile. I had opted for a nude lip, with my white vest and flared corduroys. They were new and I was worried they came off a bit try-hard, but my ass looked tremendous in them and everyone on a Saturday night was trying hard.

While I waited for the bartender to turn our way, Mom examined the chalkboard of band names, consulted her watch.

“8:45, Sunrush. Is that them?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s them.” I stared at the back of the bartender’s shiny head. His neck folds ate a streak of sweat.

Once our drinks were secured, I turned and began to separate faces from the mass of bodies. A few I recognized from past shows, semi-strangers with whom I’d engaged in drunken mutual shouting. I had invited my friends to a few gigs in the beginning, when it had just been one of those funny new things – I was kind of seeing this guy, his band was playing, why not? Once they realized this wasn’t the long runway to a relationship, the question became, how much Sunrush does a person who’s not sleeping with a band member want to listen to? The answer: not that much. At the other end of the bar, Tammy emerged from the bathroom. She dated Sid, the bass player, and was shockingly boring. I waved her over.

“Tammy, this is my mom. Mom, this is Tammy. Her boyfriend’s in the band.”

“Ellen,” Mom said. “How do you do?” They shook hands vigorously.

“Oh my god, hi! I didn’t know you’d be here. This is so fun!” Tammy said. “From Columbus, right?”

“That’s right.” Mom used the slow, gracious voice she reserved for people she thought were dumb.

“Did you hear about Zach?” Tammy turned to me. In her attempt to bring me into the fold as a fellow Band Girlfriend – my unofficial relationship status notwithstanding – she had decided that one of our points of connection was shared disdain for Zach. She was right, Zach was a dick, but there was only so much you could say about it.

“What happened to Zach?” Mom asked. Concerned, leaning in.

“Nothing happened to him, he just took mushrooms before the show,” Tammy said. Big eye roll. “Not that I’m like, say no to drugs or whatever, but the other guys take it seriously. Putting on a good show and everything. And Zach is always doing something to make himself the center of attention.”

“Oh,” Mom said.

“I heard he didn’t take that much,” I said. “More like an experiment.”

“Yeah, he’s a real scientist,” Tammy said. More eye rolling. It was like she just learned how to do it. “Oh my god, there’s Deena!” She waved to a girl who stood in the doorway looking confused. “That’s crazy, I went to high school with her. I’ll be right back.” Tammy disappeared into the rows of shoulders.

“She seems fun,” Mom said.

“She’s not, but that’s nice of you.”

Mom and I had established ourselves by the sound booth when the band came on stage and began tuning up. She pointed to the drum set and mouthed him? I nodded. My beer can became lighter and lighter until there was just the hollow slosh of backwash on aluminum. Oh, the high theater of tuning up! Zach and Brian could be counted on for your standard boys-will-be-boys fooling around. Jokes exchanged, exaggerated impressions of Elvis or David Byrne. It was elementary school recess. The girls are watching the boys, the boys are pretending they don’t know the girls are watching. Alex, the rhythm guitar player recruited through mutual friends, the only one who hadn’t been in their previous band, the Rock Hards, went the other way with it. He was consumed with the technical elements of tuning up. There was no end to the knobs that needed twisting, the pedals that needed pushing, the amps that required thorough investigation. Sid, poor guy, didn’t know what the fuck to do with himself. Whatever he did, mess around with Zach and Brian, talk with Alex, fiddle with his own stuff, Tammy was right there in front of him, her elbows practically on the stage.

I told Mom I was going to the bathroom and took that first, really special pee of the night. The walls were plastered with band stickers. Each one the subject of untold hours of debate and refinement. Three pairs of legs stood in the stall next to me. Giggling, snorting, flushing. On the way back, at the bar, I ordered a tequila and Tecate special. Tequila, lime, shudder.

I returned as the stage lights dimmed. Zach stepped toward the mic, regarded it skeptically. Scattered titters from the crowd. Brian focused on Zach like he was a coach giving a pre-game speech that Brian didn’t care about but, in principle, respected.

“Hello there,” Zach said, drawing out the hello. It was a deep voice, trying to be awkward-funny. “We are Sunrush and we are going to play some songs for you.” Brian counted them off.

About their music. Was it good? I thought it was. As good as whatever else people played at these shows. At least not worse. Occasionally there would be a transcendent band, usually powered by some spectacular singer or guitar player. They would play and you’d think, well shit, people are doing this? But that was rare. Mostly, those months watching Sunrush and the bands they played alongside taught me about the essential randomness of “making it.” The bands that were signed by labels or managers sounded a lot like the ones that didn’t get signed. This was a fact that could either encourage or demoralize the men of Sunrush, depending on the day.

Mom swayed to the music, put something extra on it whenever we looked at each other. A shimmy, a lip bite.

“They sound good. Very good,” she said.

“Yeah, this isn’t their best show, but not bad.” It’s a funny thing to hear what you’re saying and hate it. The self-satisfaction. And yet. To also be so goddamn proud. Watch him go, this hot drummer of mine! Next to us, the sound booth glowed. The sound guy played with his board, did sound guy things. Mom finished her drink. I held out my hand for her glass but she motioned that she would hold onto it. They got to Brian’s song, which they usually saved for second to last. His eyes closed, neck twisting and grotesque with that one vein that popped whenever he sang. Mom rubbed my back. Like it was my big moment.

After they finished, she and I found an empty booth. We talked about the show, pretended we weren’t waiting. Tammy emerged first, then Sid, then everyone else. They all came to the table. Introductions, handshakes. Mom sat up very straight, repeated everyone’s names so she would remember. Brian sat next to me.

“And this is Brian,” I said.

“Of course. Nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” she said. “Well, not so much. Just, you know. It was great to see you play. You all sound wonderful.”

“Thanks, it’s nice to meet you too.” He rested his hand on my thigh, pressed his thumb into the corduroy. “I think we sounded alright. Not our best show, but pretty good. How are we doing on drinks?” The rest of the band had gone to the bar. He took our order and joined them.

“Nice boy,” Mom said.

“Yeah, he is. You don’t have to keep telling me how good the music is and how nice he is. Let’s not make a whole big thing about it.”

“A whole big thing? Alma, my god, it’s just an observation. You’re introducing me to someone in your life, I think I’m allowed to give him a compliment.”

“Okay well, I’m just saying.” Over her shoulder, the bartender poured shots for everyone. Tammy had to be convinced. Was making a meal out of it. “You don’t have to feel obligated to like, pass along your approval.”

“Don’t get like this with me. I really can’t right now.” Her face was flushed.

“I don’t know what the fuck that means, ‘like this,’ but please keep your voice down. They are literally right behind you.”

“I will not sit here and be talked to like this, Alma. I just won’t.” She made a face like she felt tears coming but wanted to be strong.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” I sandwiched her hands in mine. “Come on, look at me. I’m sorry for cursing, I shouldn’t have done that.”

She looked at the wall. I decided that if she cried, I would usher her out. Tell everyone she wasn’t feeling well and just go.

“I’m being sensitive. I’m sorry,” I said. I rubbed her hands the way I used to when I was a kid. They would cramp up while she graded papers and I would knead them. Hard. I’d feel the knuckles and tendons move under my fingers in ways that I imagined were painful and unnatural, but she said felt good. At the bar, they read something on Zach’s phone. Mom turned to me and smiled. A weak, brave smile.

“Alright, let’s just be done with it.” She took her hand back.

When Brian returned, we divided our drinks and toasted to Sunrush. He took a long, slow sip from his can. A loud beer-commercial ahhhhh at the end.

“You must be thirsty after all that,” Mom said. “It’s very physical. Drumming. Isn’t it, Brian?”

“Oh sure. Plus there’s the lights, which get pretty hot,” Brian said.

It didn’t sound right. Her saying Brian. Like she was reading her lines. I wanted to snatch his name and shove it back into her mouth but it was already far, far away. And I was far, far away too. I was drunk, but it wasn’t just that. Mom asked him where he was from, what he did when he wasn’t playing music. They discussed Kalamazoo, where he had grown up and she had apparently attended a conference years ago. It was relaxing, not participating in a conversation that was entirely for my benefit. I had already done my part. Without me, these two would be strangers, and it was only out of their mutual obligation to me that they forged ahead, Brian guessing the name of a Kalamazoo restaurant that Mom was trying to remember.

“Flaherty’s?” he said. “Or maybe The Deering, but that closed a while ago.”

“No, no.” She chewed her lip the same way she did when she was stumped on a crossword clue. I watched Brian think hard, searching for the name of this goddamn restaurant.

It was a relief when everyone came over and said that some band had dropped out of a house show up the street. The organizer wanted Sunrush to take their place. I hated the thought of this, Brian and me and Mom, unraveling into yawning pleasantries, all of us unsure how to mercifully end it. Instead, there was movement and excited discussion, instruments ferried from backstage. Brian and Mom hugged.

“Good luck,” she said. Balled her fists and shook them.

“See ya,” he said. I knew they would never see each other again. He knew, she knew. Everyone knew.

Outside, crowds of people smoked and talked and bounced around to stay warm. Mom squeezed me in a side-hug.

“Well, looks like you’re going home with mom.” She let out a puff of hot air, watched it billow and disappear. Some hair had fallen from her bun, laid across her forehead. “Should we get a drink somewhere else?”

“It’s up to you.”

“You know, you can go to their show if you want. I can get myself back to your place.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m tired.”

We started walking back. The sound of wind between houses, nightlife noises dissolving behind us. She turned her collar up. I thought about my bed, sharing it with her. I knew we wouldn’t talk the rest of the way. We would walk and be cold and get back to my apartment and fumble with our shoes in the dark before someone turned on the hall light, then the living room light. She would boil water and ask if I wanted some peppermint tea. I would say no and she would make one for herself and only have a few sips, half a cup, then get into her pajamas and come to bed. There we would be, back to back. Her body, heavy and warm, tugging down the mattress behind me. It would be quiet, then her snores. And I was right. That’s exactly what happened.

Sunday

I did not have a hangover, but I was aware of my head. The tents of the farmer’s market had transformed a sleepy side street into a heaving thoroughfare. I leaned against a fire hydrant, far enough from the soap stall that I couldn’t hear them. The soap man was giving an impassioned speech punctuated by wild, theatrical gestures. Mom stood with a hand on her chin, nodding gravely. In her other hand, a twenty-dollar bill.

I looked at the wispy clouds smeared against the low, blue sky, and thought about United Airlines flight 2488, leaving O’Hare for Columbus at 7:30 am the next day.

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Leo Vartorella is a writer from Brooklyn, NY, who lives in Glasgow, Scotland. His work has appeared in New World Writing, HAD, Rejection Letters, Maudlin House, Burial Magazine and scaffold.

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