Adjusting the lost chapters - Feb 3

February 3, 2012

…You and strawberry wine, inspire me to write words and write lines
but i cant describe, how I feel inside
Yeah you and strawberry wine, make me scream I am alive!
but i cant describe, how i feel inside
when i look in your eyes
or taste strawberry wine…

“Thats all I got…” I say sheepishly and lay the guitar across my lap again.
“I really like it!” Says Maria. I look up at her and smile shyly.
“Thanks.”
“I like the part about Barnes and Noble.” says Ben. “You should finish it.”
“Did you write that the other night?” asks Weenta
“Yeah…” I say and flash her a guilty grin
“You drank that whole bottle didn’t you?”
“Mmhmm.” I hum recklessly proud.
“Oh dude…”
“I was so good!”
“Wait whats this?” Asks Maria.
“Strawberry wine.” I say
“She got it from Homestead.” adds Weenta
“It was so good!” I say again. “I almost wish it wasn’t alcoholic ‘cause i just wanted to drink more… but the alcohol adds to it too. I cant describe it…. It was just, oh my god.”
“Where did you get it from?” Maria asks
“Theres a homemade wine store by the Barnes and Noble. I was there to get bottles to start my own winery in the kitchen cabinets but they had tasters and I had to buy a bottle. The ladies where really nice! I told them my story and they even gave me an umbrella.”
“Why? You didn’t you walk there did you?”
“Well, yeah. I didn’t feel like taking my bike.”
“She always does.” Says Weenta.
Ben starts to laugh. “You Holmans….”
“You’re just like your father aren’t you?” Says Maria shaking her head. I smile and shrug, absently rubbing my shoulder - its still sore. The empty bottles (and two full ones) I purchased from the winery weighed more than I thought they would. The kind clerks tried to make handles for me out of rolled garbage bags but even still I had to sling the mass over my shoulder and shift it often through the 3 mile walk home in the rain. By the first bridge I was wondering if I’d make it home. I tell myself I’m building my character when I’m in a fix like that. I tell myself “I’ve been through worse, Ive been through worse, Ive been through worse”, every mile. And maybe it is the worst, but it doesn’t matter if I tell myself it ain’t, and before I know it Im always home making an ice pack, taking off my boots, and forgetting the rest. I don’t know how my Dad does it, but that’s how I get by. No, maybe I do. I think he makes a game of it, well I do that sometimes, too. That's what he used to do with me, that's what I remember. We’d pretend we were fighter planes on our bikes and I’d have to chase after him making machine guns noises every mile of the 8 we used to trek from Greenport to Orient on Long Island. That’s how he got me to keep up with him despite how heavy our backpacks were and how small I was. That was a long time ago. I brush my hair in front of my face with my fingers to hide a sad smile that I can’t hold back. What dreams I had back then. Weenta opens her laptop and starts fiddling with its keys, typing and scrolling. Ben peers over her shoulder. Maria takes a swig off her wine and looks back at me. I wonder if she’s going to bring up the eggs in the mug again.
I tuck my hair back behind my ear. “Yeah.” I finally say and laugh, but nobody seems to hear me.
“Okay what’s next?” Asks Maria
“I’m looking for Mr. Jones.” Says Weenta. “Do you guys still want to sing that?”
“I don’t know it.” I say
“What? You definitely know Mr. Jones.”
“Dude you know Mr. Jones.”
“No, I really don’t.”
“MR. JONES AND ME!!!!” Ben yells out in a cracked voice. Maria startles a little then bursts into a laugh that folds her over her guitar.
“Thanks for that Ben.” She chuckles.
“Anytime.” He says, taking a large sip from his mug.
“Okay!” Weenta breaks in and spins the laptop towards us. “Got it. Who’s scrolling this time?”
“I will.” Says Ben. He puts his mug down and shifts towards the center of our little circle on the floor. “Ready?” he asks looking at Maria and me. We nod. Then we all begin to sing.
Time blurs together as we sing and I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting cross legged together. Somebody pops their head in at some point and says we sound beautiful. That makes us all laugh.
“Were definitely all off key.” says Maria
“No, we just need more to drink.” Says Ben. Weenta rolls her eyes but I’m in favor of the decision. Im always in favor of the decision of more to drink.
We go through Bruno Mars, The Rolling Stones, Train. Our selections have no bias or method, we are guided from one song to another by our mirth and memories. We pour more wine. Maria explains to me what a “warm winter” is and offers me a similar mug to Ben’s. I don’t like it and make a face, we laugh, then we’re singing again. We come up with an idea to build a food truck on Braddock Avenue and sell everything in burritos - and warm winters for the locals at Ben and Maria’s playful suggestion. We keep singing. Finally, maybe just for a moment, but finally, my anger and my aching memories melt away. The southern sun fades from my guitar strings and the wail of sirens on city streets echo, then silence. The dull clang of the steel mill across the street slips in the room beneath our music, the too sweet taste of “warm winter” coats my lips. I wonder if some day this will be the sensations that haunt me. Walking through a town somewhere, maybe carrying groceries home, as i fight to ignore a ghost town hiding between little pink houses in twilight. I don’t like the thought. I like here, I like now. I like these songs, and not feeling alone.
After the evening winds down we plan to meet at the house to discuss our food truck seriously - soberly - and Weenta and I step out into the bitter cold night, my guitar slung across my back, Weenta in her red peacoat. She stops in the snowy parking lot looking up at the steel mill and turns too me.
“It’s such a symbol.” she sighs with the glow of the flame in her eyes. “Every time I look at it, its like this is real, I live in Braddock.”
“Yeah.” I say, kicking at a hard lump of sooty sleet. “We live in Braddock.”