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mused-amused · 5 months ago

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Jeff Buckley: Knowing Not Knowing

From Inside the Music: Conversations with Contemporary Musicians about Spirituality, Creativity, and Consciousness

©️ 1997 Dmitri Ehrlich

Early in the spring of 1997, singer and songwriter Jeff Buckley headed down to Memphis to begin pre-production on what would have been his second full-length album. A few weeks after Buckley arrived, his bandmates flew in from New York to join him. He was in high spirits: the songwriting was going well, and he was reunited with his group. The same night his band arrived Buckley went out for a late-night stroll to a Memphis harbor and waded into the river. He had always admired Led Zeppelin, and was singing "Whole Lotta Love" when a boat passed in front of him. He lost his footing, perhaps dragged into the water by the boat's wake, and was never seen alive again.

He was thirty years old, two years older than his father, the folksinger Tim Buckley, had been when he died of a drug overdose.

I first met Jeff Buckley and saw him perform about two years before he passed away. It was near midnight and Buckley was sitting in the back office of a Tower Records store in lower Manhattan. Buckley had become a scion of the Lower East Side antifolk scene, and was preparing for an in-store performance in support of his album Grace.

But first he needed to do something: he insisted on listening to a crackly old recording of "The Man That Got Away" by Judy Garland, on the pretext that he wanted the store manager, who had given the CD to Buckley, to un derstand how magnificent a gift it was. Buckley needed to demonstrate the album's beauty. He had also picked up gratis CD reissues of vintage Aretha Franklin and Nina Simone records, and two albums by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, who had a major influence on Buckley's singing. While Buckley could occasionally summon the same kind of ecstatic vocal power that was Khan's trademark, his singing had more in common with Garland's delicate, vulnerable warble.

Buckley was an unglamorous star. That night he was wearing a wretched pair of weathered combat boots-the sort you occasionally see homeless men selling-a frumpy gray cardigan sweater, and jeans that hadn't been washed in a long time. Ditto his hair. In an oddly white-trash bit of accessorizing, Buckley's wallet was attached to his belt by a chain, in the style favored by motorcyde gangs. Three days of beard growth rounded out his anti-coif, but his sex appeal remained intact: a nervous girl approached to ask if, as she suspected, he was a Scorpio. Another pressed a poem she had written for him into his hand. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket, as though he would cherish it forever. Maybe he did.

Buckley was at an odd moment in his career when he died. Having moved to New York several years before from California, where he was raised by his mother, he crawled his way up through the ranks of the insular lower Manhattan music scene. He had become a mini-star in that highly circumscribed microcosm, perched on the cusp of national and international success. That night at Tower Records the line between Lower East Side local hero and international stardom seemed pretty thin. On one hand, his debut album sold several hundred thousand copies (al-though more in Europe than in America), and there was & throng of photographers and autograph-seekers pressing around him. On the other hand, he wasn't above hauling his own gear onstage, more or less indistinguishable from the half dozen stringy-haired sound men and roadies who were putting the sound system in place.

Buckley had no video in heavy rotation on MTV, largely because he insisted that people judge the music on the way it sounded before supplying them with an accompanying image. For the same reason, he refused to even suggest a single to radio deejays. "What I'd love," Buckley said, "is if a deejay had a lineup of songs, and he'd just use one of my songs as part of a really nice evening. But that's the way I would deejay, not the way they do it. They usually have playlists."

For a guy with folksinging in his blood, Buckley had assembled an arsenal of prog-rock guitar effects you'd expect at an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer show and had set his amp at cat-spaying volume. (In fact, he had been raised on Led Zeppelin and Kiss.) Several dozen more stringy-haired people with assorted rings in their lips and noses (his fans) materialized. As he stepped onto the makeshift stage, a grumpy security guard began clearing some fans from a stairway, but Buckley interjected: "Wait! Those are my friends! Can they stay there? I give them special permission." What started as dispensation for four friends ended up being extended to anybody who wanted to stay.

The set began with a ghostly wail from Buckley, and a mildly Middle Eastern guitar line. He sang with a vibrato that quivered like the tongue of a snake. It was so atmospheric that you hardly realized his bandmates were rocking their tits off. That was the tension: Buckley ululating in sensual falsetto, the band churning out mid-seventies Led Zep knockoffs. He seemed a strangely ethereal cherub in the midst of all that visceral thrash.

After the show, Buckley signed autographs, taking several minutes with the thirty or so fans who lined up for an audience with the tousle-haired singer. Rather than just scribbling an autograph, he wrote a personal note to each person. Everything he did seemed to place poetry before commerce, but I couldn't help wondering if it was all an elaborate ruse, a crafty stance aimed at those disenchanted wich the slickness of pop posturing. Didn't Buckley, after all, want to make a lot of money and sell records?

"If it happens it'd be great," he said later that night, over omelettes and wine at an all-night eatery, "but we just play to express. I want to live my life playing music, so that we can be immersed in it. In order to learn how deep it goes, you have to be in it."

As to why he took so much time with each of the fans who asked for an autograph, Buckley articulated his basic anti-rock-star stance: "The way I experience a performance is that there's an exchange going on. It's not just my ego being fed. It's thoughts and feelings. Raw expression has its own knowledge and wisdom." He trailed off, as though humbled by the mere thought of his audience wanting to hear him play, or asking him for an autograph.

"I’ve been in their position before and all I wanted was to show my appreciation to the performer. So I feel like it's kind of generous of them to even be asking me for an auto-graph.

"It's true that there's also the people who want a piece of you," he conceded. "But it's pretty hard to keep feeling protective all the time, because there's really nothing to protect yourself against. Sometimes people shout at me on the street, and they feel they know me through my music. But that doesn't substitute for a real personal rela-tionship. I don't feel like people know me, I just think we share a love for music in common, and for some reason they key into the way I play. I feel appreciative when people come up to me, and I feel good when we connect. Usually, it serves as a nice comedown after a performance. Any other conduct would bust the groove, because I'm buzzing when I get offstage, and I'm consciously protecting that connection because that's what got me through the performance in the first place. It's an invocation and worship of this certain feeling, this direct line to your heart, and somehow music does that more powerfully than anything else. It's like a total, immediate elixir."

By all appearances Buckley conformed to the stereotype of the poetic artist: largely lacking the practical, thick-skinned psychic barrier that separates most of us from the harsh realities of life. With a rabbit-like nervous disposition and a hypersensitive vulnerability that bordered on tragicomic, he looked like he was about to burst into tears at any moment. His face was contorted and slightly tortured-looking during most of the interview, though I got the impression that it wasn't so much the experience of being interviewed that was torturing him but the pain of grappling with his own thoughts and the world around him.

Relationships were at the heart of Buckley's world.

Although he was marketed as a solo artist, the attitude he had toward his listeners mirrored the relationship he formed with his three-piece backing band. "Playing with a band is all about accepting a bond, accepting everything the way it is. It takes a lot of patience and a lot of taking chances with each other. It takes seeing each other in weak and strong lights, and accepting both, and utilizing the high and low points of your relationship."

It wasn't only interpersonal relationships that Buck-Ley held sacred - he was aware of making his music in relation to all the sounds around him. The environment was Buckley's co-composer: to his ears, no melody or rhythm was separate from the sounds going on in the background.

“It’s not like music begins or ends. All kinds of sounds are working into each other. Sometimes I'll just stop on the street because there's a sequence of sirens going on; it's like a melody I'll never hear again. In performance, things can be meaningful or frivolous, but either way the musical experience is totally spontaneous, and new life comes out of it, meaning if you're open to hearing the way music interacts with ambient sound, performance never feels like a rote experience. It's pretty special sometimes, the way a song affects a room, the way you're in complete rhythm with the song. When you're emotionally overcome, and there's no filter between what you say and what you mean, your language becomes guttural, simple, emotional, and full of pictures and clarity. Were you to transcribe it, it might not make sense, but music is a totally different language."

"People talk all day in a practical way, but real language that penetrates and affects people and carries wisdom is something different. Maybe it's the middle of the afternoon and you see a child's moon up in the sky, and you feel like it's such a simple, pure, wonderful thing to look at. It just hits you in a certain way, and you point it out to a stranger, and he looks at you like you're weird and walks away. To speak that way, to point out a child's moon to a stranger, is original language, it's the way you originate yourself. And the cool thing is, if you catch people in the right moment, it's totally clear. Without knowing why, it's simply clear. That sort of connection is very empirical.

It comes from the part of you that just understands imme-diately. All these types of things are gold, and yet they are dishonored or not paid attention to because that kind of tender communication is so alien in our culture, except in performance. There's a wall up between people all day long, but performance transcends that convention. If pop music were really seen as a fine art or if fine art were popu-lar, I don't know what the hell would happen this wouldn't be the same country, because if the masses of people began to respect and really open to fine art, it would bring about a huge shift in consciousness.

"Music is so many things. It's not just the perfor-mer. It's the audience and the architecture of the song, and each builds off the other. Music is a setting for poi-gnancy, anger, destruction, total disaster, total wrongness, and then—like a little speck of gold in the middle of it-excitement, but excitement in a way that matters. Excitement that is not just aesthetically pleasing but shoots some sort of understanding into you."

Buckley's songs were composed with made-up chords, bright harmonic clusters that seem too obvious not to have been written before, yet they rarely feel formulaic. There's a lot of open strumming, suggesting that the songs were written largely for the sheer physical pleasure of playing them. He and his band modified the arrangements during each performance, playing with an elasticity and openness typical of Buckley's personality. "Hearing a song is like meeting somebody. A song is something that took time to grow and once it's there, it's on its own. Every time you perform it, it's different. It has its own structure, and you have to flow through it, and it has to come through you."

Buckley's entire career reflected his outsider's approach to the music business. When he arrived in New York, rather than recording a demo or finding an agent, he simply began to perform for free. He played at a small café on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and before long, crowds were lined up out the door. As a result, representatives of record companies sought out Buckley, rather than the other way around. "There is a distinct separation of sensibility between art as commerce and art as a way of life. If you buy into one too heavily it eats up the other. If instead of having songs happen as your life happens, you're getting a song together because you need a certain number of songs on a release to be sold, the juice is sucked out immediately. That approach kills it."

Still, it took a strong belief in one's art to sit in a small café and trust that the world's record companies would come calling. Buckley played down his seemingly effortless approach to career as though it were common-sense. "I just wanted to learn certain things. I wanted to just explore, like a kid with crayons. It took a while for me to get a record contract, but it also took a tremendous amount of time for me to feel comfortable playing, and that's all I was concerned with. And I'm still concerned with that, mainly.”

"I don't think about my responsibility as a musician in terms of any kind of religious significance. I don't have any allegiance to organized religion; I have an allegiance to the gifts that I find for myself in those religions.

They seem to be saying the same thing, they just have different mythologies and expressions, but the dogma of religions and the way they're misused is all too much of a trap. I'd rather be nondenominational, except for music. I prefer to learn everything through music. If you want divinity, the music in every human being and their love for music is pretty much it. It's the big indication of their spirituality and their ability to love and make love, or feel pain or joy, and really manifest it, really be real. But I don't believe in a big guy with a beard on a throne, telling us that we're bad; I certainly don't believe in original sin. I believe in the opposite of that: you have an Eden immediately from the time you are born, but as you are conditioned by your caretakers and your surroundings, you may lose that origi nal thing. Your task is to get back to it, so you can dam responsibility for your own perfection."

Buckley considered the development of awareness to be the main goal of his life. "I think of it as trying to get more aligned with the feeling of purity in music, however it sounds. I think music is prayer. Sometimes people make up prayers and they don't even know it. They just make up a song that has rhyme and meter, and once it's made, it can carry on a life of its own. It can have a lot of juice to it and a lot of meaning: there's no end to the different individual flavors that people can bring to the musical form.

"In order to make the music actual, you have to enable it to be. And that takes facing some things inside you that constrict you, your own impurity and mistakes and blockages. As you open up yourself, the music opens up in different directions that lead you in yet other directions." Asking most pop musicians if they're satisfied with record sales is like asking models about the aging process: they say they don't care, but it's hard to believe. For commercial recording artists, sales are the only objective indicator of whether they're doing things right—that fans are sincerely motivated to walk into record stores by the tens or by the millions, pull out their wallets, and pay for the music. But with his quiet, unaffected voice nearly a whis-per, Buckley steadfastly maintained that he really didn't want to sell a million records and it was strangely believ-able. When he talked about multiplatinum-selling bands who felt "disappointed" by a mere five million copies sold, the disgust he felt for commercialism was palpable. "The only valuable thing about selling records, the only thing that matters, is that people connect and that you keep on growing. You do make choices based on how many people you reach, meaning, now that I have a relationship with stangers worldwide, I have to try not to let it become too much of a factor and just accept it. The limited success we've had in the past is definitely a factor, it's just there. It justis. The whole thing is such a crapshoot, you can't really control what your appeal is gonna be. My music ain't gonna make it into the malls, but it doesn't matter. I don't really care to make it into the malls.

"Whether I sell a lot of records or not isn't up to me. You can sell a lot of records, but that's just a number sold-that's not understood, or loved, or cherished.”

"Take someone like Michael Jackson. Early on he sacrificed himself to his need to be loved by all. His talent and his power were so great that he got what he wanted but he also got a direct, negative result, which is that he's not able to grow into an adult human being. And that's why his music sounds sort of empty and weird.”

"Being the kind of person I am, fame is really over-whelming. First of all, just being faced with the questions that everybody faces: Do I matter? Should I go on? Why am I here? Is this really that important? All that low self-esteem shit. You're constantly trying to make sure that your sense of self-worth doesn't depend on the writings or opinions of other people. You have to wean yourself off acclaim as the object of your work, by learning to depend on your own judgment and knowing what it is that you enjoy. You have to realize what the difference is between being adored and being loved and understood. Big difference.”

“I don’t really have super pointed answers to the big questions. I’m in the middle of a mystery myself. I’m not even that developed at having a real psycho-religious epistemology about what I feel. All I can tell you is that I feel. It's just the same old fight to constantly be aware. It's an ongoing thing. It'll never be a static perfect thing or a static mediocre thing, it just has its rise and fall."

Pics from the book. Amazing that Jeff is in the same section as Allen Ginsberg and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. He would have been so honored.

#what I wouldn’t give for one conversation with him #jeff buckley #jeffbuckley #90s aesthetic #90s nostalgia #music #spirituality #consciousness #philosophy #dream brother #manic pixie dream boy #are you a Scorpio

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wordynerdygurl · 2 years ago

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Someone to Watch Over Me

Part 1: “Love is Blind”

Author’s Note: Do you think the Duffer’s realized what they were doing when they brought Eddie Munson to life on paper? I don’t think so. Because it’s been, what, nine or so months now, and I’m still all in on my favorite ne’er do well metal head.

This is my first time with an Original Character standing in for “reader”. Just like with my reader insert fics, our OC is female and plus size. Pairing: Eddie Munson x Plus Size OC Amanda Patterson Summary: It’s love at first sound, pitch perfect and fated, everything in harmony. If only life were a love song.

Amanda and Eddie meet by chance but their connection is real. Some night music and milkshakes maybe all it takes to show that Hawkins’ resident bad boy is worthy of love. The kind of love a misfit like Amanda is ready to give to the right guy. Have they each found the right someone to watch out for them? Warnings: This is a slower burn than my usual, but I think it’ll be worth it. There will be SMUT in additional chapters, but for now, there’s making out, eating a lot of junk food, some size shaming and self doubt. Oh, and a character gets slapped.

“There’s a saying old, says that love is blind”

1990

“So, Eddie, how’s the tour been going?”

Pulling a long strand of dark hair over his cheek, a nervous habit he couldn’t seem to break, Eddie raised his dark eyes to the reporter asking the questions, ignoring the video camera and boom mic hovering overhead. It took everything in him to keep the sarcastic edge in his tone to a minimum, “Well, Chuck, it’s been a helluva time. Me and the boys, we’re just taking what comes. It’s been fuckin’ amazing to see so many cities and of course, our fans.” “Oopsie! Can’t curse like that, Eddie. Can we cut around that?” Chuck was asking some producer, talking over Eddie’s head, ignoring him all in the name of being appropriate for television. Already he was over this whole experience. What Eddie really wanted was to get back to the green room, have a beer or a smoke- scratch that. And a smoke, before having to play tonight’s show.

The conversation around editing was still happening, Eddie’s interview on pause. It gave him a minute to evaluate the man asking the questions. Smarmy, yea, that’s the word Eddie would use for a guy like Chuck. Hair slicked back and suit a little too colorful to be classy, the guy was cheesy as hell, but he was going to film a piece about the band. Something for MTV to use in promos or some shit. Eddie didn’t really care to know. There were people for that now. The same people who kept assuring him that there was no such thing as bad publicity. Not when there was a nationwide tour that needed to sell tickets and t-shirts and records, so he bit his tongue and smiled sheepishly, waiting for the next question. “We rolling? Great. Ok, ready Eddie?” Nodding in answer, Eddie gave him the green light. The interviewer tapped his finger against the skinny microphone in his hand, picking up seamlessly from where they had stopped earlier, “That’s good to hear. Now, Corroded Coffin plays specifically metal but who has influenced your musical journey? Which artists do you listen to?” Blowing out an exhale, his lips parting, Eddie thought for a minute. “Ya know, all the greats Chuck. I mean, I cut my teeth on Led Zeppelin. Heart, Black Sabbath, obviously-” he rolled his eyes for emphasis, “-Iron Maiden and Metallica. You play metal music and I’m there, man.” Chuck nodded along, agreeing with everything coming out of Eddie’s mouth, trying way too hard to seem interested. He seemed more like a Madonna kinda guy, too caught up in the look of something to worry about its substance. It grated on Eddie’s nerves, set his teeth on edge. “Gotcha. So, the people want to know-” Chuck drug out the question, clearly enjoying the way he baited his interviewee, “-What is Eddie Munson’s favorite song?” Toffee colored eyes widened. Despite the movement around him, the roadies hauling in speakers and gear, the conversations between stage crew and security guards, the clicking of boot heels on parquet flooring, Eddie could hear it. His favorite song. Clear and distinct, the memory a perfectly preserved bubble of sight and sound. From over his shoulder someone coughed, bringing Eddie back to the here and now. “Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to zone out there.” “Don’t worry, we’ll edit it out.” Chuck’s hand made a motion urging him to continue. Eddie’s ring laden right hand rubbed across the skin on the back of his neck, internally debating just how real to be with his response. In the end, Eddie told the whole truth. He spilled one of his deeply held secrets to a douche bag with gelled back hair and a smile that was too much teeth. Looking directly into the bubbled lens of the video camera, Eddie offered up a reluctant, almost embarrassed smile, “My favorite song? That’s a great question, man. And, uh, ya know, I wanna say something hard rocking and fast. But honestly? Someone to Watch Over Me by the Gershwin brothers.” Eddie’s voice was practically a whisper at his admission. He was ready for a ribbing. A hard rocker like him, known for bad boy behavior and leaving a lady behind in every city? No way Eddie Munson could possibly be a romantic at heart, right? Fully expecting a laugh from smarmy Chuck, some jab about the softness of his choice, or a comment on it being a standard, something old fashioned or behind the times. But Eddie only heard the insipid agreement of the interviewer, “Great song. A classic.” “Yea. It is.”

—

1987

It had always come naturally to Amanda. She opened her mouth and the sound just came out, warm and round, with the right amount of inflection and sweetness of tone. Singing was what she did. From the time she could talk, Amanda was making music, using her body as the instrument. Church choir taught her how to sight read sheet music, her voice moving up and down the scale in time with the half and quarter notes. Learning how to let her high Soprano melt in with the other members of the chorus so that no individual could be heard over another. Discovering the power of dynamics; an effective hushed line that built into a climaxing crescendo, the rush of belting out a powerful note with all of the choir members doing the same. Amanda continued to discover the best ways to utilize her voice, really only ever happy when she was humming or whistling or belting out a tune. One Christmas there was a tawny wooden guitar under the tree. She carried it with her everywhere she could. Teaching herself the chords from a beginner’s guide until she could play “Frosty the Snowman” without stopping. And her unquestionable love of music grew with every new song she memorized until the entire book had faded from overuse. There were high school musicals, of course. Grease, Annie, Guys and Dolls, Anything Goes. And even if she was always the sidekick with no solo, hanging around in the back of the chorus lines, she loved performing. Being on a stage, with the lights and excitement, the tension of anxiety turning into the power needed to propel her through the show. Amanda lived for the thrill of it. Something could go wrong or things could go incredibly right. In either case, you could never truly know which way it would play out until it was happening. Then, the curtain would fall and there would be bows and applause. Amanda loved the spotlight, absolutely and unequivocally. Only, the spotlight didn’t love her back. Her round, full cheeks wouldn’t do to play Sandy. The curvy, womanly figure she’d grown into wouldn’t work for Annie or Pepper or even Mrs. Hannigan. Despite the lovely, lyrical quality to her voice, it wasn’t enough to outweigh her looks. So Amanda sang out loud and long from the back row of the chorus, her robe tight across her ample chest. She learned the simple choreography for musical numbers and was told, “you’re so light on your feet” as if it was shocking to see. Every year was a new chance to gain that place in the middle of the stage, singing for all she was worth for everyone to hear, but never making it due to a healthy appetite which made her soft in the places where people would rather she be firm. It was the bitterest of pills, but she swallowed it, happy just to be involved. Pleased to have her name printed in the program as a participant even if she was living off of the scraps of lesser performers who just so happened to look prettier under the hot stage lamps. She accepted hugs from the pretty boys who tried on singing and dancing as a way to meet girls, but wouldn’t give her a second glance. The boys who saw her as the funny, talented friend of the group. Always happy to drive everyone home, listen to everyone’s troubles, offering sage advice and asking for nothing in return. That was Amanda.

All too soon, school was ending. Over. And college loomed in front of her, full of promise and secret worries.

She knew what she wanted, what she had always wanted. It had never changed despite the wacky directors who hid her behind scaffolding or pushed her to the dim corners of the stage. Amanda was on the earth to do one thing only: make beautiful music. It was, after all, her favorite thing to do. Unfortunately, it was also incredibly difficult to make a career out of, something her parents constantly felt the need to remind her about. They only wanted what was best for her, that’s what they said anyways. And what was best, in the opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Patterson, was a steady job as a hairdresser or nurse or preschool teacher. Anything really to fill the gap until she met “the one”, got married and started having their grandchildren. Too bad Amanda loved the music so much more. It had taken a lot of work, hours and hours of debating and shouting but somehow she had convinced them to let her go to school for music. The catch? She’d also study education. It was a compromise Amanda was willing to make, just to get her foot in the door. Worst case? She’d wind up a music department chair at some high school or another, a great back up plan to her real dream: musical super stardom like Linda Rondstadt or Carol King. Only, school was expensive, especially when you were trying to make music your career. And her parents did as much as they could, which she was incredibly grateful for, but everything cost so damn much. So, almost broke and entirely desperate, Amanda searched around until finding a part time position at The Music Shop. She started selling sheet music and drum sticks, auto tuners and guitar straps from a squat building painted an obnoxious shade of ocean blue that could be seen for miles in any direction. Occasionally there’d be a student in need of some musical mentoring and she’d drag out her acoustic guitar, the tawny one she kept in its cardboard case after all these years. Showing them where to hold their fingers and how to press against the tough strings in order to get a pretty sound out of the instrument brought her a lot of joy. It was still making music and that was enough for her between class work and socializing and generally trying to be a good person. The college classes related to music and music theory were fascinating. Her collection of records and tapes had grown significantly. It seemed as though every new person she talked to had a list of bands she “just had to listen to” and Amanda did. How could she ever thank her roommate’s boyfriend for turning her on to Lou Reed? Did she live before knowing all the words to Pirates of Penzance? How did Whitney Houston sound so incredible all of the time?

Writing a paper on the importance of Tom Petty’s ability to pen pretty lyrics, Amanda found herself surrounded by like minded musical folks. She was invited to parties where everyone sang along to the radio, getting rowdy in the tame way theater kids everywhere are prone to do. Drinking beers was fun. Smoking cigarettes killed her throat through and Amanda refused to damage her instrument with nicotine like that. Besides, she couldn’t afford them anyway. When she wasn’t studying or singing or stocking, Amanda did gig out. Sometime during her first semester she had been approached by Jim, a cellist, Mark, a drummer and Carly, a pianist. Having met the threesome at someone or other’s pre-Thanksgiving break bash, Amanda hadn’t realized it right away but she was casually auditioning for their band. Not once did her size come up. All the three seemed to care about was how quickly they could get her into a rehearsal. They had a jazz trio and wanted someone to vocalize for them, someone with a soft tone, an easy timber that could get them playing in front of bigger crowds. That she blended in with their group dynamic made it an easy fit and soon, the four of them were playing shows together all over the area and regularly too. Now, well into her third year at school, Amanda had a good idea of what her life was going to look like. She would work the store, teaching a couple of private students the ways of the guitar, and sing out with the band on the weekends. If they happened to get a wee bit drunk after a show, who could blame them? After all, they were barely twenty and the world still had so much left to show them. At the music shop, one late September Saturday, Amanda took a minute to hang up the flier for Hawkins’ Autumn Concert Series. Their quartet had been asked to entertain, practicing for weeks now getting the set list perfect for their biggest concert yet. Smiling happily to herself, she gently forced the pushpin into the cork board where the typical announcements of used instruments for sale, lessons for keyboard or piano, and imploring alerts for new band members all co-existed in a colorful, clashing collage. Stepping backwards, Amanda wasn’t entirely paying attention, her mind already drifting to the highlight of the performance. What she was going to wear, how she’d do her hair, all the little details that she liked to get right in an effort to make sure that the show went off without a hitch. That’s how she missed the fellow who was crouched down behind her, ringed hands reaching for the Iron Maiden song book that was propped up on the bottom shelf. Her booted foot hit something solid, something that shouldn’t be in the aisle, and she turned quickly. A blur of black leather and curls flew upwards fast. The joint of her ankle rolled and Amanda reached out blindly, connecting with a solid wall of a person, holding on with a death grip to keep on her feet. Holy shit, did this chick have pretty eyes. It was his first thought and boy, was it a doozy. Eddie could see the shock clearing as worry crept in, crowding around the wide irises, her lips parted in a panicked “o”. Clipped nails clawed into the denim vest he always wore, holding herself upright against the unfair tug of gravity, her forearms pressed tightly to his chest. Bringing a steadying hand to her wrist, he shook his head, shyly smiling, “You alright there? Took a bit of a tumble, didn’t ya?” Inhaling shakily, Amanda nodded dumbly, her heart still thrumming. Still standing much too close to a stranger. She had been certain of falling but having this, this guy break that fall, was disconcerting in an entirely different way. “Oh, I am so sorry! I didn’t see you, and-” “Hey, it’s ok. No harm done, so long as you’re ok. You are ok, right?” There was a brief flash of concern that crossed his face, but it faded when Amanda bobbed her head at his question. She hadn’t moved. Eddie was still looking down at her upturned face, the way her hair fell softly against her cheeks and the sweet sweep of her nose making her look about as precious as he had ever had the pleasure to see. Eddie didn’t want to look away. For another beat they stood there, together, surrounded by score books and tutorial materials while an instrumental version of “Don’t Stop Believing” played through the store speakers. Shifting in his Reeboks, Eddie swayed to the melody and Amanda let herself be carried along with him. In another second, Amanda was certain that she would wrap his arms around her waist and call it a day. Already, Eddie’s free hand was sliding towards her shoulder, another point of contact with this unknown, but very cute, man. “Yo! Amanda? Are you-” Kyle’s voice cut through the force field around the pair. At the sound of her manager’s shout she panic jumped back far enough to thud against the very cork board which held her proudly hung announcement, knocking the air out of her lungs with a grunted, “Oof!” “Jesus! What are you doing?”

Amanda’s eyes went wide at Kyle’s intrusion, and she pressed a hand to her chest to stop her startled heart from bursting free from the unused adrenaline, “Me? Kyle, you scared the crap out of me!” Eddie’s head had snapped towards the interruption before pivoting back to the pretty lady he now knew was called Amanda. His hand reached for hers reflexively, to help steady her, the same shy grin tugging at his lips. That she took it and held it like a lifeline sent a zig-zag of energy from his fingertips straight to the muscles of his tummy which tightened at the contact. One of Kyle’s eyebrows shot skyward, his face skeptical, “What’s going on over here, anyway?” He asked as if he already knew the answer, questioning eyes full of judgment. Amanda’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. What was going on back here? She didn’t know, really. Luckily, Eddie did. “Uh, your beautiful sales associate was just helping me find this-” holding up the song book with Iron Maiden’s logo splashed across the cover, he continued, “-and uh, then you came around the corner and, ya know, scared her half to death.” “Were you dancing?” Sneaking a quick glance her way, Eddie chuckled, “Dancing? While she’s supposed to be working? Naw man. Like I said, she was helping me out.” His arms crossed over his chest, Kyle stared directly at Amanda, all but demanding her side of the story. Running a palm up her neck, leaning into her hand, she exhaled loudly, “He’s- he’s right, Kyle. I was just giving him, ya know, a hand.” Narrowing his eyes, not believing either of them, Kyle groaned in frustration, “Fine. Whatever. Just, I had a question for you. Ya know, when you’re free?” Nodding, “Sure. Yea, of course. Just um-” she gestured towards Eddie, “-Give me a minute, ok?” “Yea. Ok.” Snorting, Kyle moved back towards the register, leaving Eddie and Amanda alone once more. Blinking those amazing eyes his way, Amanda locked her hands together to keep from touching the broad boy in front of her anymore, “So, thank you. I’m not entirely sure what was going on, but I’m glad I don’t have to explain it to my boss.” “Right. Well, I’m sorry for tripping you up. Covering for you seemed like the least I could do.” Amanda heard the store’s music shift, something by Annie Lennox filling the space, and she took a tentative step away from Eddie causing him to lean forward, “Wait-” “Yea?” Her hair swung over her shoulder, that’s how fast she spun around to face him, her stare open and curious. Nervously, Eddie bit his bottom lip as he rocked on the worn down heels of his sneakers. For the first time in as long as he could remember he was almost unsure of what to say, “Uh, can I see you again?” Amanda didn’t laugh in his face and she didn’t shy away, both reactions he fully expected if he was honest about it. Instead, and to his utter amazement, she reached behind her, yanking down the flier she’d only just hung up, “Absolutely.” And she pushed the paper into his hand before scurrying toward Kyle. Shit. He was in trouble already. Waiting just another couple of minutes, Eddie made his way to the cashier, patiently standing behind a flustered mom and her teenage son. That the kid kept trying to get her to look at the cherry red electric guitar and amp set, already staged for Christmas, wasn’t lost on Eddie. It’s exactly the type of gear he’d lusted after when he was young and eager, before he’d gotten his Sweetheart, and never looked back. Mind wandering, he didn’t hear her at first, “I can help you over here, sir.” Tilting his head towards her voice, Eddie took a shuffling step toward her register, “Ah, thank you, miss.” “No problem.” But it most definitely was a problem, because Amanda couldn’t lift her gaze his way. Not when her body rolled over hot at the memory of his chest under her fingers, his brown eyes peering down at her with sweet desire in their burnt caramel depths. Amanda punched in the code numbers, reading the price sticker and busying herself with recording the sale correctly. “Amanda? What’s the price for the Fender capo?” “Twelve fifty!” It’s automatic and Eddie was astonished at how she kept focused on his sale while answering her colleague from memory. Finally, she raised her face to find Eddie’s smiling one already looking in her direction, and struggling to keep the flush of her embarrassment in control managed to ask, “Is uh, is there anything else today?” “Naw, Amanda. I think this’ll do it.” Giggling, a bit more timid now that she was safe behind the counter, Amanda bagged up the book and relayed the total. Eddie pulled the bills out of his wallet, his chains clinking together musically, as Amanda made change for him quickly and precisely. When he grabbed for the package, his fingers rested over her own for just a heartbeat, “I’ll see you soon then. And uh, thanks for the dance, Amanda.” Stunned, all she could do was stand there, confused at the Dio patched metal head who pushed through the doorway and onto the street. Under her breath, Amanda swore, “Fuck. He knows my name.” —

Eddie didn’t know what he was supposed to wear to an outdoor concert in Hawkins Memorial Park at the beginning of October. Was it a jacket and tie sort of situation? Were jeans enough? Was he going to stick out like a sore thumb if he was wearing a Metallica t-shirt? All of these questions and more burned through the bong ripped brain of Eddie Munson. Pacing in front of his mirror, he fluffed his hair with his fingers, fidgety and fussing. “Dude. You’re fine. What’s the big deal anyway?” Fixing Dustin with a stare that would wither lesser beings, Eddie folded down the collar of his red checkered flannel shirt, “The big deal? I’ll tell you, Henderson. The big deal is-” grabbing for his well used bottle of Aqua Velva and splashing a few shakes into his hands, “-I don’t wanna look like a jerk. I want to blend in. Just uh, enjoy some new music, and a nice night.” “Psst. Bullshit. Who’s the chick?” His eyes widened. How could the little butthead know? Eddie hadn’t said a word about the music store beauty and still, somehow, the pipsqueak was calling him out. “What chick? Who said chick? There’s no chick.” “Me thinks thou doth protest too much.” Pausing while he fiddled with the buttons on the sleeves of his shirt, confusion filling his face, Eddie blinked, “Wha?” “It’s Shakespeare. You protest too much ‘cause, ya know, you’re covering up.” Frustrated, Dustin shook his head, closing his eyes as he exhaled heavily, “Nevermind. You’re clearly lying. Tell me about her. Who is she?” Looking over at his youthful friend, Eddie thought about it for a long second. Tell Dustin about Amanda? What was there to tell? Shrugging safely into his shirt, Eddie bought himself some time fiddling with the buttons. “Uh, well. I don’t really know her all that well. We, literally, bumped into each other at the music shop when I was picking up my new bible.” He was now entirely focused on his hair which had decided to go fluffy. Disgusted at what he saw, looking more pampered poodle than suave rocker, Eddie continued to run his hands through the curls as he chatted with his sidekick, “She’s uh-” “Pretty?” Dropping his gaze to the top of his dresser, Eddie’s cheeks colored at the word, “Yea. So cute. And, she seems smart. Funny, ya know?” Nodding, Dustin came up behind his friend, plucking a stray hair from his shoulder, “Sounds pretty damn perfect, man.” “I’m sure there’s a catch. There always is when it comes to women.” Eddie couldn’t help trying to keep his excitement in check. It was better to set his expectations low. Less likely to hurt so bad when someone disappointed him and people always seemed to be disappointing Eddie Munson. Catching his older friend’s eye in the mirror, Dustin offered up a toothless smile, “I don’t know, man. Maybe she’ll surprise you?” —

People were scattered around the park. Some hovered near benches, others sat on blankets and a lucky few used their lawn chairs, dragged from home, all to get a good view of the small stage where the quartet would be performing tonight. It was exciting. Amanda had unpacked her mic and cord, scatting a bit so that the guys could get a level on her voice and ensure a balanced sound through their mixing board. She didn’t really understand all the technicalities, but in the end it helped make sure that they all sounded as good as possible, so Amanda played along. “Testing one, two, three- testing one, two, three. Can y’all hear us out there?” A smattering of claps and one enthusiastic “Woo hoo!” met her question. Carly’s electric piano came next, banging out a couple of chords, before Jim slid his bow across the strings of his bass. Not to be excluded, Mark took a couple of rim shots, making them all laugh. Now all that was left was waiting for the start of the show. Seven o’clock and one of the town’s cultural council staff members used her microphone to blab about why they were hosting this event and to welcome Amanda and the band. The lawn had filled in a bit, more people milling around which was always a good sign, so Amanda took a deep breath before greeting everyone, “Good evening everyone! We’re the Indiana Four and we’re going to play for you tonight. If you like what you hear, there’s a tambourine-” jingling the instrument to get everyone's attention, Amanda added, “-and I’ll leave it right here, in case you wanna put a little something in it!”

It was still too early for a full on sun set, but the sky didn’t know it. Painted in bold streaks of orange that melted into petal pink due to the rays of the sinking sun, it created a warm glow which outlined everything around them with a gilded golden edge. The moon was already a ghostly crescent barely visible in the rainbow tinted ether when Amanda let her voice rise into the oncoming night. Mark counted them in with a broad smile in her direction and Carly’s piano joined the swell of music. The deeper bass notes of Jim’s cello grounded the opening strains of their first song. Amanda gently shut her eyes, letting her body feel every word of the song she was singing, just like she would do at home in her shower or behind the wheel of her tiny car. Unaware of herself and completely at ease, letting her instrument, her voice, blend into the melody the four of them created together. Eddie was never going to get over the sound of her voice. Sweet and soaring, she seemed to change the quality of its tone depending on the song, always leaving him guessing. Which version of this lady was going to sing next? A sultry vixen, heart broken and mournful? The shy ingenue, new to love? A plaintive bard, looking for answers? Or some new character created to enchant him with only the power of her voice? In between songs, Amanda smiled brightly, joking with the people gathered and teasing her band mates playfully. It made the entire concert feel comfortable- easy. Like the folks who came down to see them were in on the funniest joke. All one big, happy family who simply wanted to share music on a random October evening in the middle of Indiana. “Ok everyone, you’ve heard us sing a little of this and a little of that-” wrapping her hands around the microphone, Amanda pulled the silver stick closer, “-but now we’re going to do a favorite of mine, if that’s alright.” At the opening strains from the piano, a couple, older with matching graying hair, stood in front of their chairs and started swaying together, wrapped in each other’s arms. Amanda’s lips spread in a wide smile pointed in their direction as she started, “There’s a saying old, says that love is blind. Still we’re often told, seek and ye will find. So, I’m gonna seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind.” Moving from the lamp post he had been leaning against, no longer content to watch from the shadows, Eddie stepped directly into Amanda’s line of sight. She saw him. How could she miss the leather wrapped, long haired guy who was peering straight into her soul? And she wanted to look away, give someone, anyone else in the assembled listeners, her attention, but Amanda found that she couldn’t.

Had she expected him to be there? Shaking her head for the crowd to see answered her own thoughts. No, Amanda had no idea that the metal loving smooth talker would actually come to seek her out. But, she had thought about it in the small moments between guitar lessons or while driving to her classes in the morning.

So, no. Seeing Eddie stand there, bold as brass with his wide eyed stare and his hands in his pockets was not what Amanda had been expecting. Hoped for, maybe. Wished for, absolutely. Reality though was better than anything her mind might have considered. “Looking everywhere, haven’t found him yet He’s the big affair I cannot forget, Only man I ever think of with regret.” Eddie swallowed hard. The words she was singing wrapped around him on the night’s breeze and held on tight. It was as if they were having a conversation that no one else could decipher, a conversation for only two. “I’d like to add his initials to my monogram, Tell me, where’s the shepherd for this lost lamb?” And she sounded lost. Abandoned. Alone. Exactly like the type of person that Eddie was collecting for Hellfire or the band. A person who needed someone like him to shield them from the big bads in life. A guy who could protect her from the sort of wolves that a shepherd like him knew about all too well. “There’s a somebody I’m longing to see, I hope that he turns out to be Someone to watch over me.”

She was singing just to him. Only Eddie. There was no one else to look at, no one else who could understand or appreciate what the lyrics demanded. “I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood, I know I could always be good To one who'll watch over me”

Eddie felt his smile slide into place. It wasn’t the wide, dimpled, open grin that showed off his teeth and let you know he was happiest. No, this smile was small, secret. It drew his pretty pink tongue over the plush swell of his lips, something Amanda could see from a distance. Then, just to be coy, his pearly top teeth bit into the pillow cushion of his bottom lip, teasing her from her position on the small stage. Even from this far away, Amanda could see that he had made an effort. A shirt with a collar was buttoned across his chest, all red and black squares that looked soft and broken in. Sure, it was still under his leather jacket, but the denim vest must have been left somewhere safe, because he wasn’t sporting the pins and patches that she remembered from their first encounter. Jeans, dark blue or was it black? She couldn’t really tell, but it didn’t entirely matter. Either way, they fit snugly around his thighs and only sported a single torn knee. The threads stretched across his joint, frayed and begging to be played with. His hair was wild. It fell in waves of dark tendrils, looking to all the world like no care had been taken in its shaping and styling. Amanda stretched the fingers of her right hand, the one not holding her mic, imagining how Eddie’s curls would feel wrapped around her fingers. He saw it all. The way her hand fisted at her side before trailing up the chord of her microphone, tangling the slack in her fingers. How Amanda let every note have its own moment before the next one rose to join it. “Although he may not be the man some girls think of as handsome, To my heart, he carries the key”

Eyes fluttering shut, Amanda took a breathy inhalation as the melody shifted, daring to break the spell by denying herself the sight of Eddie in the crowd. Her heart thumped in time with Mark’s gentle drumming, thick hips swaying without her conscious approval, the crowd around her all but forgotten. Sliding back to the original cadence, the song swelled up and out of Amanda, nearing the end. “Won't you tell him please, to put on some speed, Follow my lead, oh, how I need, Someone to watch over me”

Eddie was transfixed. There was only him and Amanda and her voice and the falling sun burnishing everything rose golden in the fading light. He caught the way her skirt curled happily at her ankles with every shift of her feet. The way her mouth formed around the lyrics. How her chest rose and fell with each expressive stanza. The words repeated: “Won't you tell him please, to put on some speed Follow my lead, oh, how I need Someone to watch over me”

Amanda let her eyes flutter open. Closer now, unavoidable and un-ignorable, Eddie was standing directly in front of her. The final note, held until her lungs burned from want of air, faded into the ether and she winked at him. She couldn’t help it, really. Not when she had somehow managed to carry on as if the most handsome guy Amanda had ever bumped into wasn’t staring straight into her soul as she sang. Not when every note was rich and ripe and reverberated across the people packed plaza even if, presently, she sang solely for an audience of one. Applause. Clapping and whistling came from every corner of the park, jostling Eddie’s attention. From the stage, Amanda giggled at his reaction, but smoothly covered her response, “We are just so grateful that you all came to see us tonight. So-” tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, a shy smile pointed in Eddie’s direction, she continued, “-we’re going to do one more song before we say goodnight.” She didn’t look at Eddie at all this time. Amanda wasn’t even sure she could, not after the intensity of singing, to him, for him. But she could tell he was there all the same, with his elbows bending outward like leather wrapped wings, nervous energy causing him to bounce on his toes in time with the music.

The new melody started and Amanda let it take her away too. This number is lively, the rhythm more rock than jazz, and she gave herself permission to have a little fun, show off a little bit. Still, she actively ignored the one set of eyes that didn’t seem to stray from her own through their final song. Soon enough, it was all over and the Indiana Four began breaking down. A few friendly folks from the audience came up and said kind words. Luckily there were a few dollars in the tambourine and Amanda happily handed the take to Carly, “Not so bad.” “Not bad at all-” But her friend stopped mid sentence, a voice familiar and still foreign cutting through the conversation, “Um, excuse me? Amanda?” Turning around, Amanda was surprised to find Eddie so close that the toes of her boots brushed against his Reeboks. She looked up at him through the curtain of her mascara, “How can I help you?” Now her voice was breathy. Husky. And it made Eddie’s skin prickle hotly. “Uh, I just wanted to tell you- all, tell you all just how much I enjoyed your set.” Only, Eddie never looked past Amanda’s face. Couldn’t really. Not when her wide eyes were staring into his own, their long lashes accentuating her curious gaze, her head tilted in a way that showed sincerity.

His calloused palm rubbed against the back of his neck, nerves getting the better of him the longer that Eddie stood there. It felt like hours. Long, silence filled hours where no one spoke and he dangled from a weak branch of his own social awkwardness. In reality it was only seconds before Amanda giggled like a crushing school girl, dropping her gaze to break the spell she had unwittingly cast, “Well, that’s awfully kind of you…?” Clearly she was prompting him. It was unfair that she was at the disadvantage of not knowing his name when he had learned hers through the forced politeness of the customer service industry. Behind her, Carly snorted as they watched Eddie extend a heavy ringed hand, taking Amanda’s in his own. Raising it high enough to press a chaste kiss to the back, adding a saucy wink for good measure as he answered, “Eddie. I’m Eddie.” “Eddie.” Amanda wasn’t aware that she’d whispered it out loud until her friend was reaching past her, extending her own hand Eddie’s way for a greeting, using her flirty voice to try and charm the very handsome, very out of place guy, “Carly. That’s me. And-” dropping her hand when Eddie failed to take it, Carly laughed ruefully, “-you don’t care.” Carly was absolutely right. Neither one of them paid her any attention because the world as Amanda knew it no longer existed. Not anymore. There was a new sun, a new sky. One with raven curls and plump, pink lips. A center of the galaxy that smelled like Aqua Velva and cinnamon gum and something mossy green. The world had shifted off its axis, tipping her right into the arms of Eddie Munson. For Eddie, well, he had been gone from the second Amanda had tangled herself around him so tightly that she’d almost fallen. But it was amazing to recognize that these feelings he was having were mutual. He got shy then, toeing at the patch of grass in front of her, hands in his pockets while he played at casual, “Wanna get outta here?” Nodding wordlessly, Amanda agreed, only to realize her unspoken intention. “Yea! Uh, yes. Yes. That would be nice.” When Eddie cocked his chin up, the smile on his face was dazzling, “Excellent.”

— She was sure that she told the band where she was going and who she was leaving with, but Amanda couldn’t be certain. It felt like so long ago. An age had passed since she had been standing on the simple stage, singing for all of Hawkins to hear. Since then, the long ago days of the early evening, so much had happened. Eddie had held her hand as he walked her to his van, holding open the door and ensuring that Amanda was tucked safely inside. Boys didn’t do that- not for Amanda Patterson. Not for the chubby girl who still had her baby weight to lose. When he caught her nibbling worriedly at her bottom lip, Eddie asked pointedly, “Everything alright?” “Uh, yea, I just-” “Afraid I’m trying to kidnap you, huh? I get it. Vans do have a-” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively while pressing the tip of his tongue to the center of his top lip, “-certain reputation. But I promise you, Amanda. No funny business.” With one hand over his heart, Eddie extended the other, holding his pinky finger out. She recognized the gesture. Every school aged kid would. “Is that- are you making a pinky promise?”

His cheeks split into a solar powered smile as he nodded, “Oh, yes. Absolutely. And it’s ironclad, since, ya know, we link our little fingers.” Chuckling with her whole body, her shoulders lifted as Amanda agreed by reaching out her own pinky, “Ok, ok. No funny business.”

They wrapped their littlest fingers around the other, huffing out laughs like naughty children. And it did comfort any nagging fears that might have flooded Amanda’s mind because it was so silly. So unexpected. It was also entirely sincere. Roaring to life like a beast roused from slumber, the van started and Eddie shifted into gear, “Are you, by any chance, hungry?”

He was hoping against hope that she was because Eddie wasn’t ready to say goodnight. Not now when he finally had this beautiful songbird buckled into the passenger’s seat, looking at him with those electric eyes. Eyes that kept pulling him in anytime he dared glance Amanda’s way, now fully focused on him and beaming. Normally a question like that would be fully loaded for a young woman very aware of her size and stature, but for the first time and without any hesitation, Amanda answered without reservation, “Starved.”

Exhaling through a grin, Eddie shook his hair off his shoulders, “Then let’s go!” The drive to the diner was filled with chatter. He offered kind words about the band, the concert and her vocals. “You, you’re just incredible. Never heard someone sing like that before.” “Thanks, but truthfully, Carly and Mark and Jim, they make me sound better.” Amanda did that thing where she deflected the words, the attention, to anyone else in order to minimize herself. What she didn’t count on? Eddie’s ability to see right through her. Blowing his bangs off his face, Eddie swiveled to face Amanda, his tone finally serious, “Uh uh. Nope. No way. You’re gonna have to accept that you’re the star of the show, sweetheart.” Then, he leaned over the center console, right into Amanda’s personal space to bump her shoulder with his own, “Please, take the compliment.” Her jaw snapped shut, hands in her lap where Amanda fooled around her with fingernails, fidgeting. She swallowed thickly and bobbed her head, her voice gaining strength. “You’re right. I, uh, I appreciate you saying that.” “No problem at all, hun. I’m only telling the truth.” That’s when she noticed his little finger wiggling her way, “Pinky promise.” — Normally Amanda would frown at the idea of a booth. They tended to be a tight squeeze, embarrassingly so when she’d have to slide across the bench, her supple thighs sticking to the tacky pleather. She desperately did not want to be embarrassed in front of the forthright dude in front of her. But Amanda didn’t need to worry. Eddie, lacing her hand in his, tugged her to the back table, “My usual spot- out of the way and the most comfortable one in the place.” Deep and roomy, the color of jellied cranberry sauce from a can, the cushion was accommodating because of its indeterminate age. She plopped onto the seat with room to spare, more than a little relieved, “Oh yea?” “Yea. I’ve been breaking it in for years.” Cocking her head in a way that made Eddie’s breath hitch, a clever half teasing smile curling one corner of her mouth higher than the other, Amanda joked, “So you bring all your women here, then?” The deep barking laugh that came straight from Eddie’s chest made an elderly gentleman sitting at the countertop turn around with a scowl. “All my women? You make me sound like a lothario.” “Mr. Goodbar? Is that you?” She squinted her eyes, leaning into the bit. “Oh, Mandy, honey. I am nowhere near that good with the ladies.” “I don’t know. You’re doing pretty good with me, so far.” And it was out of her mouth like a runaway rocket. There was no way to pull it back, no way to reign it in. It was there- out in the ether, like a comet bound to crash through the atmosphere. Amanda froze because now she’d done it. She had pointed out her interest, revealed herself as wanting, knowing that any other time she had dared to give voice to her attraction it had always been met with let down and heart ache. The embarrassment boiled through her. God, she had wanted so badly to play it cool. To ensure that Eddie was really into her before making any kind of declaration that couldn’t be passed off as a joke. Stewing, Amanda waited for the inevitable rejection from the man far prettier and sexier than she should ever hope to have for her own. But instead of a dismissive shrug or, worse, a comment about liking her as a ‘just friend’, Amanda got to watch as Eddie’s eyes lit up joyfully. He couldn’t hide it either, apparently, since his smile widened enough to show off a pair of precious dimples, “Yea? Ya think so? That’s- uh, that’s good to hear.” Something about his own reckless enthusiasm caused the flood of worry to ebb away, leaving Amanda filled with a warm, gooey sensation that was not as familiar. Could it be? Was this what mutual attraction felt like? Was this what love songs had been selling for generations and greeting card companies were always trying to find new ways to describe? Was this… love? “Hey lovebirds, what can I get ya?” It is a universal law that wait staff appear at the table when it is least convenient and this interruption by Cheryl ensured that all was right with the cosmos, her tiny pencil poised and ready to write. They had spent no time reading the menu, but Eddie had it memorized cover to cover. Looking at Amanda, he nodded, “So, uh, do you trust me?” Again, her head tilted, appraising this nearly perfect stranger with the gorgeous grin and shaggy hair. “Uh huh, yea. I trust you. Why do you ask?” Licking over his lips, he turned all of his unfiltered attention to their waitress, dialing the charm up to eleven, “Hiya Cheryl!” “Hi yourself, Eddie. What’s it gonna be?” There was a familiarity there that spoke of too many late night coffee cups and slices of pie. It wasn’t friendly, really, but it was warm enough and Eddie’s puppy dog eyes moved the conversation into safer waters. “Hmm… patty melts. Two please, with the curly fries, ok?” A curt nod answered his request, “Yea, and to drink?” He looked at Amanda, that impish twinkle shining bright in his cinnamon dark eyes, “Milkshakes?” “Oh! Yes! Vanilla for me, please.” She beamed at Eddie, excitement at the consideration evident in Amanda’s face. “And I suppose you want chocolate, right Eddie?” Cheryl lifted her gaze from the scribble filled notepad to stare down at Amanda’s dinner companion. Placing his ring covered hand over his chest, Eddie batted his eyes, “You know the way to my heart, Cheryl.” Snorting approvingly at his antics, she jotted down Eddie’s preferred flavor, “All right kids, be right up.” And she wasn’t kidding because before either of them could let the silence grow, two tall and frosty milkshake glasses were being slid across the glittering formica, each topped with a mound of whipped cream and a luscious, over sweet cherry as a crown. A pair of straws were tossed down without much thought and Amanda greedily grabbed one, eager to taste the delectable treat in front of her. “So, tell me about you. What do you- like, what do you do for fun?” Eddie was toying with his straw’s paper wrapper, making small talk and working hard at looking effortless. He hadn’t been out like this, with a girl he was so into, in ages. Maybe ever, really, and he was rusty, more than a little out of practice. Amanda swirled her own straw through the thick vanilla shake in front of her, biting into her bottom lip before replying, “Well, I work. A lot.” “At the Music Shop?” She shrugged, “Yup. But it’s not all restocking sheet music and replacing guitar strings. I teach-” “Like guitar?” Something about the prospect was so exciting. A fellow musician to noodle around with and she just happened to have the voice of an angel? Was this paradise found, or what? Amanda nodded at his eager response, “Yea. Also some keyboard, like, really beginner piano, ya know?” Eddie slurped at his chocolate shake, brain going a mile a minute. Shaking his long hair off his shoulders, nearly gawking, he clicked his tongue before sighing deeply, “It’s not really fair.” Worry filled Amanda’s features. Had she done something wrong? It had all been going so well, maybe too well? “What’s not fair?” Rapping his ringed knuckles against the tabletop before pointing her way, “You. You’re like, too good to be true.” Shy now, Amanda turned away from his kindness, his honeyed praises, and fiddled nervously with the pendant of her necklace. It wasn’t something she had a ton of experience with; flirting and compliments and genuine appreciation. If she was on a stage, under a white hot spotlight, Amanda would know exactly what to say, what to do, but here on the worn out bench seat of a small town diner, Amanda found herself unmoored by all the attention Eddie was sending her way. “Oh, that’s like- I mean, I’m not-” she let her voice trail off, suddenly transfixed by something outside of the plate window. “Hey-” Eddie laid his hand, palm up, on the worn down table, his voice dropping to a whisper. He’d said something to upset Amanda because she had taken those brilliant peepers away and that felt wrong on a primal level. “-Amanda? Did I- uh, shit. Did I do something, ya know, wrong? Shit.” There was something in the defeated sound of Eddie’s expletive that brought her around. She saw his open hand, still laying on the table and cautiously linked her fingers with his. But she still could not meet his questioning look. Twirling one of those big, heavy rings around his large and frankly, distracting fingers, Amanda finally huffed out a lungful of air. “I guess I should like, be honest here and tell you that I’ve never really done this.” She motioned between the pair of them with her unoccupied hand as if that alone would explain her behavior. Eddie squeezed her fingers for a second, a trace of teasing in his tone when he asked, “Had dinner in a shitty diner?” Rolling her eyes skyward, she snorted out a small laugh, “No. Well, kinda? I mean, I haven’t really had a-” she let her eyes lock onto Eddie’s maple brown ones, holding him still, “-a date. I, uh, never really had anyone, ya know, wanna take me out. So, this is new. For me, anyway.” Eddie could see what the admission cost her. The once pleased smile now turned just a little pouty as her bottom lip puckered from the effort of opening herself up. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as if she couldn’t keep the air inside her for too long, but perhaps the most telling was the way that Amanda’s hand clung tightly to Eddie’s. For a long second neither one of them said anything. The kitchen crew could be heard, banging around pots and plates. Another couple in a nearby booth was laughing loudly. The radio was tuned to the oldies station so everyone could listen to Sam Cooke singing about Cupid. And when Amanda realized that Eddie wasn’t going to respond, she sat up, stiffer than before, readying to take her hand with her. But Eddie closed his fist around her fingers, keeping his hold on her and tugging her gently forward, a pained pinch obvious in his voice, “Me either.” “What?” He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly, “I don’t date. Uh, that often.” Popping one eye open, just to see if Amanda was still with him, Eddie continued, “Um, I’ve got a bit of a, well, a reputation. And for some reason, the ladies around here aren’t into that.” Shooting for levity, Eddie hoped to lighten the mood. Moments like this, where he was on display emotionally, where he was open and vulnerable, made him nervous. Anxious. Twitchy. It was fucking scary to be sitting here with this pretty bird and tell her how much of a disaster he really was with no bravado to use as armor. And if Amanda wasn’t already heading for the hills, there was no way he would be able to stop her now. “It’s the van, isn’t it? All the people you’ve attempted to kidnap, right?” At her gentle jest, both of Eddie’s eyes popped open. She was still there, sitting sweetly behind her melting shake, a tentative twist of her lips making it impossible for Eddie to stop imagining what kissing her would be like and he felt himself nodding with a hoarse giggle, relieved, “Yea. That’s, uh, that’s it. I’m just a creepy metal head with a super creepy van.” “You probably have candy too and uh, puppies? For the luring of innocents?” “Of course. What’s a kidnapper without his bait?” “A weird guy with an empty van?” And that absolutely shitty punchline was enough to send them both into a giggle fit, shattering any lingering tension created by being a touch too honest in the moment. There would be a better time to talk about deep dark secrets and the reasons why two lonely people could find comfort in each other, but this wasn’t it. When Amanda pulled her hand back this time, Eddie let it go. She used her napkin to dab under her eyes, clearing away the tears that laughing together had created. Then she was dipping down to slurp at her creamy concoction, grinning, “This is so good!” “Right? But, I gotta say, vanilla is-” “What? What’s wrong with vanilla?” Shaking his head with a laugh, Eddie raised his eyebrows, “Vanilla is kinda boring.” “It is not!” Scalded by his choice of words, Amanda leaned over their shared table at the diner, motioning him closer. When she was near enough for her now vanilla scented breath to skate across Eddie’s mouth, Amanda husked, “Vanilla is smoky. Sweet. It’s hard to grow, super hard to harvest and while there are many imitators out there. Real vanilla. The good stuff? Well, that shit would rock your world.” Amanda, feeling bolder, pushed in tighter despite the formica between them, continuing in a hushed tone. “And Eddie-” her voice dropped even lower, forcing him to concentrate on every word leaving her tenderly parted lips, lips that smelled like bourbon and sugar and cream. Lips that Eddie wanted to taste so badly that he was sure he was going to go mad, right here in the goddamned diner, before their burgers ever made it to the table. Lips that begged to be kissed stupid, carried on, unaware of his rising desire, “-never forget this: chocolate needs vanilla to taste so damn good!” Sitting back, pleased as punch now that her point was made, Amanda slurped down another sip of her vanilla shake. Eddie needed a minute. Or seven. He was still almost lying chest down on the booth’s table, having to cock his head up to look at the vanilla loving vixen gloating over him. Spreading his broad hands over the tabletop, Eddie dramatically pushed himself back into his seat, eyeing Amanda warily, acting contrary for the fun of it. “It’s a good story, kid. But I’m still not convinced about vanilla’s superiority. Maybe-” He was pushing his luck, he knew it. God, but he knew it only too well. She’d admitted to being new to all this, inexperienced, but still, fortune favors the bold, isn’t that what some famous person had said once? Amanda, unknowingly, waited for his follow-up, her mouth wrapped around the striped straw, her cheeks round and smiling, “Maybe?” Leaning onto one leather wrapped elbow, Eddie reclaimed the space at the center of their table, “Maybe I need to taste it again?” She’s confused. Yea, definitely, confused. So Amanda moved, ready to slide her icy half filled glass his way. But Eddie shook his head slowly and waved her forward until their foreheads were almost pressed together. That’s when he cupped her cheek, gently, softly and Amanda, powerless to stop her body, nuzzled into the warmth there. It felt natural. Right. Easy. And there was no way that Amanda was going to deny herself this little bit of pleasure being offered so openly. If what Eddie had admitted was true, and the way his eyes had scrunched gave her a pretty good idea that it was, then he was in uncharted waters himself. Something about that idea, that they were both in this raging waterfall of connection together made it safer somehow. It made it easier to shut her own eyes and enjoy the calloused caresses of Eddie. Eddie slid his thumb over her plush bottom lip which parted without question, “Wanna taste you. That alright, Mandy?” God, did she like being called Mandy. She bobbed her head ‘yes’, her eyes shut from the want, already anticipating Eddie’s movements. But he surprised her again, asking- no, telling, “Open your eyes, baby. Please?” And only when Eddie could spy the blown open pupils of his dinner companion did he allow his mouth to surge forward. His slightly chapped lips separated enough for his tongue to sweep across Amanda’s own and he was rewarded with a sultry sigh. It made Eddie braver. Bolder.

Now he was intrepid in his search for the flavor of vanilla, teasing and taking a taste of every muggy corner of her mouth. His tongue brushed against her own, the fresh flavor of vanilla sweetness everywhere. Heady and exotic and exciting. Amanda tipped her chin downward, ready to deepen this first kiss that arched over forgotten milkshakes and the paper napkins wrapping up their silverware, tentatively running the tip of her tongue over Eddie’s teeth. Traces of chocolate and the syrupy sweet cherry from the top of his treat lingered on Eddie’s lips making Amanda hum harmonically. Her fingers fisted into the collar of his flannel shirt, ensuring that Eddie couldn’t escape, at least, not without effort. But she wasn’t worried. When his second hand molded to the curve of her other cheek, Amanda couldn’t avoid smiling, knowing that Eddie was as into this as she was. As far as first kisses went, this one was ranking pretty high on the list of all time greats and both were reluctant to pull away first. “Ahem! AHEM! I have your order.” Two heads turned toward the intruding voice of the bored and bordering on disgusted server Doris but Eddie and Amanda didn’t jump apart like a couple of randy teens might have. Oh no, Amanda leaned further into the cup of Eddie’s palm, offering their put upon server a small smile, dazed and almost drunkenly, “Hmm, thank you so much.” Eddie would have rather died than forfeit the pleasure of her trusting touch. With his free left hand he reached for one of the two plates, “Here, lemme have that.” “Whatever.” Without any further ceremony, Doris, because that’s what her name tag read, plopped both heavy ceramic dishes to the table, “Need anything else lovebirds?” Amanda lifted her head slowly, licking over her bee stung lips and nodded towards the pink cheeked shaggy headed boy still draped across their booth, “Uh, yea. Could we have another vanilla shake, please? It’s his favorite flavor.” Chuckling, Eddie let his broad thumb with the bitten down nail graze over the apple of her cheek, speaking to Doris but only looking at Amanda, “Two cherries, huh, Doris?” Rolling her elderly eyes, the waitress shook her head, “Right away.” Steam rolled off the two cheeseburger melts and stacks of seasoned french fries but they remained huddled as close at the table between them would allow. Cocking his eyebrow, Eddie couldn’t help the teasing, “My favorite, huh?” “Oh yea. You’re a convert now.” Settling back reluctantly, Eddie smirked your way, “Ever think that you’re my favorite flavor?” He was rewarded with a small kiss pressed to the inside of his wrist and what he realized was a trademark tilt of her head, “I told you that everything tastes better with vanilla, Eddie.” “Yea, you sure did.” Biting into his burger, Eddie grinned through the grease on his face, sure he had never been happier in his short life. And if the triumphant smirk Amanda flashed his way proved anything, she felt the exact same way.

— The second their empty plates had been cleared away, Eddie’s hand naturally kind of reached for Amanda’s, needy and greedy for the reassurance of touch. Just as natural, Amanda slotted her fingers between his, “I gotta say, Eddie, that was a pretty amazing burger.” Pleased at the recognition, Eddie squeezed her digits for a second, “Thanks for trusting me.” And then he seemed to realize the full implication of his statement. Thanks for trusting him on the drive over. Thanks for trusting his judgment about the restaurant and not just his menu choices. Thanks for trusting his intentions. Her eyes rounded at the sentiment, giving Eddie a flash of sympathy before leaning into a flirty smile, “I had to. You did pinky promise me that there would be no funny business and that’s ironclad. At least, that’s what I’ve been led to believe.” “God, you remember everything, huh?” But he sounded impressed. Happy that she hadn’t lingered on his more revealing comment. Nodding, Amanda agreed, “Yea, I mean, I kinda have an ear and it’s always been easy for me to memorize stuff. Lyrics, melodies, lines from movies-” Leaning forward again, engaged and interested, Eddie licked over his bottom lip, “No shit?” “No shit!” Eddie couldn’t help it. He let his eyes roam over the pretty face in front of him, etching all of the details into his own memory, vowing never to forget the greasy sweet shine of her lips around the red striped straw or how she folded her disposable napkin up primly before laying it across her dinner plate. The way Amanda’s hand felt so right in his and how her mouth tasted like vanilla ice cream with a trace amount of menthol throat drop lingering along her teeth. Eddie needed to remember it all for later. For tonight when he went back to his trailer, like a gentleman. For tomorrow or the day after or the day after that. For all the days that would spread between this time together and the next time Eddie would be able to see her. He was going to live off the sound of Amanda’s begrudging laugh when he made a joke that was funnier than it had any real right to be. He planned to survive on the nourishment of her sugared sighs when those perfect, plump and pouty lips had welcomed Eddie’s own. It was food for his soul. Essential for life like oxygen or water. “Uh, Eddie?” Amanda’s quiet question yanked him out of his own head and back into the present moment. He tugged the forward chunk of his hair between his long fingers, embarrassed at being caught, “Hmm?” “You’re, uh, staring.” “Yea. Sorry about that. It’s just-” “Do I have something on my face?” Panicked, Amanda patted at her cheeks to find the non-existent stain. And how could he help himself? “Oh, yup. A little higher. No, lower- uh, nope, other side. It’s right there-” he directed her wildly, pointing at the corner of his mouth to watch Amanda lick the same spot of her own, “-almost. How do you keep missing it?” “You little shit!” It was suddenly crystal clear that Eddie was full on fucking with her. There never had been anything on her face. “What? You got it. Just now.” Eddie’s impish grin made it impossible for Amanda to be truly mad so she settled for shooting him a playfully spiteful glare, “Uh huh. Yea, sure.” His thumb rubbed along the side of her pointer finger, the gentle drag a grounding reminder of Eddie’s unwavering presence. Amanda rested her chin against the flat of her right palm before sighing deeply, “What am I gonna do with you, Eddie?” Reflexively, re-actively, he answered, “Whatever you want, baby.” It was Amanda’s turn to stare. There was an open honesty in the hot coffee color of Eddie’s eyes that hooked her right through the heart and tugged like a caught fish on a rusty lure. He was being serious, there was no denying it. Around them the air shifted. It was no longer funny. It was no longer polite. The world narrowed once more, big enough for only the two of them and the dingy diner booth where they sat as everything else fell away. Her throat tightened and a lick of heated flame unfurled through her belly. Words flooded her thoughts but Amanda couldn’t seem to settle on the ones that would say what she wanted desperately to express. Eddie’s seemingly simple declaration had untethered her. Because it was too soon to speak with such clarity of purpose. Too early for the implication of more to be made. And yet, for the first time, Amanda saw the ghostly shape of possibility in the earnest expression Eddie wore. There was a promise there, stronger than one created when two little fingers linked, and something about that was spooky. Scary. Only, Amanda didn’t feel frightened like she thought she should, shrugging smoothly, “I- I wanna stay with you.” That was her truth, in the singular sparkling now. Leaving Eddie, even for the comfort of home, was a thought so daunting, so disruptive, that she was actively moving against it. Everything in Amanda Patterson said ‘stay’. Eddie’s head bobbed in understanding. He had no intention of letting the night end so early and without any plan in place for a follow-up rendezvous. At Amanda’s declaration, he’d changed the grip of her hand, turning it so that their palms touched, textured heat melding together.

He’d be lying if he denied the libidinous way his blood shot south at the whispered want in Amanda’s voice. He was a young and virile guy, after all. But Eddie wasn’t thinking with his dick when he said, “I don’t wanna let you go, Mandy.”

“Am I-” pausing to catch her breath, Amanda started again, “-are we crazy?” “I uh, I don’t think so.” Conspiratorially, Amanda huffed, “Then what do we do now, Eddie?” His free hand brushed through his curls roughly before landing on the back of his neck, “Let me take you home?” It was a question born of chivalry and Amanda agreed with a thin, “Yes, please.” Eddie stood up first, somehow managing to keep her hand in his as he slipped out of the booth smoothly. Once he was on his feet, he tugged lightly, bringing Amanda to the edge of the bench before offering his arm. She watched as Eddie threw some loose bills on the table and then he was leading her outside of the bacon scented diner and onto the sidewalk. She floated at his side, the swaying of her skirt brushing against the stiff denim of Eddie’s jeans. What had been an appropriate outfit for the early evening was now a bit too thin and he saw her shiver under the bright and clear Indiana sky. Popping open the van’s door, he saw her settled inside and as she buckled her seatbelt, Eddie shrugged off his leather jacket, “Here. Snuggle up under this, yea?” Gripping the body warm coat with greedy fingers, Amanda clutched it to her chest, humming her thanks. He watched as she spread it over herself, nudging the collar with her nose, “Oh man, it smells like you!” “Cigarettes and bad decisions?” “Nope.” Inhaling deeply, she thought for a minute, “Cologne? Aqua Velva, like my granddad wears and uh, Green Apple shampoo?” She couldn’t hide the surprised way her eyes widened or the knowing little smirk her mouth made at this discovery. “What? I think it smells good.” Lingering in the space between inside the van with Amanda and outside on the sidewalk, Eddie’s arms leaned into the rusted metal frame, effectively caging her in the seat. Not that she minded when every time he stretched his flannel shirt rode up just enough for an alabaster white slice of belly to peek over the waistband of his jeans. She had already noticed splashes of black ink over each hip but couldn’t be sure of its shape. His forearms were on display, the strong veins of his wrists visible under the artfully stained skin, and Amanda let her mind wander at the idea of what Eddie looked like under all that cotton and cloth. Amanda swallowed thickly. She was very aware of the protective bubble Eddie had built around her, here in the cab of his vehicle. The scent of him. The sight. It was a feast for the senses. And now all she wanted was to taste the plush and pillowy softness of his lips. Lips that were moving, saying something but her mind had gone over into staticy silver. She couldn’t help it. Not when he was standing with his trim waist nearly at eye level, the belt of his jeans drawing them low on his hips. “Huh?” That grin. Broad and toothy, spread smugly over his face, “Uh, did I lose you for a second?” “Hmm, yea. Kinda. Sorry, what were you saying?” “I was saying, I don’t want to say goodnight, at least-” he raised a hand to her cheek, brushing the calloused pad of his thumb across her smooth skin, “-not so soon.” Having already melted into his touch, hoarse and throaty, she agreed, “Yea, no, me either.” “Yea? So, if you’re up for a little adventure, I may have an idea.” Amanda lifted an eyebrow, questioning the boy before her with a sarcastic thread to her words, “An adventure?” “Don’t worry, babe. I'll make sure to get you there and back again.” His pinkie finger was wiggling, just waiting for Amanda to link them together in a silent show of trust. —

Thanks for reading! Part 2 is coming soon!

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