We never fought about money. I told her not to worry about rent, I would cover it. She did insist on paying the power bill and we split the groceries. Instead of saving the extra money she had for a new car as I suggested, she updated her wardrobe.
She did find another job, mostly by accident. One of the regulars at her bar had a friend with a high end restaurant who was looking for a new hostess. It was better hours, she would be home by 10:30 instead of 3:00 a. m., and the pay was about a third more than she was making now including tips.
It was a win/win situation for both of us. Her hours were long, 10:30 until 10, but only four days a week, Wednesday through Saturday. Since my schedule usually left me free the first part of the week, it was perfect. She even scheduled some classes at the community college in hotel/restaurant management.
We had just had a lust/love filled morning. I was drained and she was full of energy, like always. She was folded up like a pretzel across me, idly rubbing my buzz cut.
“Wiley, ever think about what our kids would look like?”
“Sure. Slender, tall, beautiful, a lot like their mother. I just hope they get my brains.”
She slapped at me gently. Then smiled.
“I hope they get your brains, too.”
I wasn’t sure, but I think a step was just taken towards marriage.
I thought about it a lot for the next few days. The decision was easy.
I made a reservation at her restaurant. I got the staff involved, and slipped in while she was distracted. Carefully placing the box on a table, I had the waitress get Sammi, saying there was a problem with the table, and could she help sort it out.
She went to the table with half the staff in tow. When she got to the table it was empty.
“What’s going on?” Asked an obviously confused Sammi.
I was standing behind her, dressed in a nice suit, the first she had ever seen me in.
“The problem, my dearest Sammi, is the ring in that box is not on your finger. The problem is, when I say “Samantha Anderson, will you marry me?”, you have to say “YES!”, as loudly as possible. The problem is you’re not sitting across the table sipping champagne, toasting the rest of our lives together.”
“As hostess, isn’t it up to you to fix my problem? I’m waiting.”
She twirled around as I made the little speech I had rehearsed. Smothered me with kisses and hugged me tightly. Regaining her breath she stepped back and became very formal.
“Sir, it is the goal of this establishment to satisfy every customer.”
She slid the ring on her finger while the waitress poured the champagne.
“Now, before we enjoy this excellent wine, isn’t there a question you need to ask me?”
“Samantha Anderson, will you–”
She pulled me up from my knee and tried to suck all the air in my lungs out.
“Yes, Wiley Patterson, I believe I will.”
The rest of the night was a blur of congratulations. It was one of the happiest days of my life. The only person who didn’t look happy was Gary, the manager.
You know how you can sometimes look at a person and instinctively dislike them? That was me with Gary. He was tall, good looking in a slick kind of way, and the asshole had a full head of hair. I felt like he could have been a snake oil peddler in a past life.
His seemingly sour attitude made me feel even better as I raised my glass to him.
……………………
Her car finally died and she sold it for junk. She just naturally got into the Mach 1. I warned her not to get too comfortable, the car was an investment, and sooner or later I would need the money for something else. It was why I got it in the first place.
Some people are ‘motorheads’ and lived for their cars. In my experience, the most militant of this group are Mustang owners, followed closely by Corvette fans.
Some people are ‘muscleheads’, living for bodily perfection. These guys scare me more than the car people. If you replace the rims on a car and don’t like them, you can switch them back. When you mess with steriods and cosmetic surgeries, it’s a one way street.
Jesus freaks, alternative living advocates, nudists, career obsessionists, everyone has something that is their identifying marker, that proclaims “This is me!”
My marker of course, was music. I had at various times played in metal bands, beach bands, rock bands, blues, country, bluegrass, jazz, even celtic and zydeco groups.
I owned four basses, all vintage except for one. Five guitars, assorted keyboards, a grand piano, a Hammond B3 organ, tin whistles, two accordians, a mandolin, a five string banjo, and a ukelele. And I was proficient in all of them.
I was smart enough to know I couldn’t continue with the line of work I was in. I had been doing it for thirteen years and was actually kind of tired of it. Unless you hit the big time there was very little fame or money in it.
Most singers or bands have a shelf life of about three to five years before fading into obscurity. I know, bands like the Rolling Stones, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, or singers like Paul McCartney or Willy Nelson can last decades, but they are the exception to the rule.
Song writers are a different group. You don’t have to be able to sing or even play an instrument, just have the ability to string words together in a pleasing manner. As long as they remain inspired they can last for years.
To that end I had been writing songs for years. Most sucked, but some had potential. I mostly wrote to please myself, but recently considered polishing some of my best and pitching them. Even now, I keep little micro recorders in my vehicles in case something occurs to me and I can record my thoughts and expand on them later.
Most of my inspiration comes from real life, both mine and people I knew. Some actually come from the radio. I once heard an interview with Paul Williams, a terrific song writer from the seventies and eighties, where he said most of his best work came from listening to other songs and thinking he would have done it differently. That wisdom stuck with me.