“Yes, but is it winter in Antarctica? I don’t think so.”
“It’s always winter in Antarctica!” Her voice rose in amusement. “Either way, it’s too far-fetched. How about something more believable, like you’re spending the winter in Aspen cutting hair for the rich and famous?”
“Right, but that makes me sound like I’m just there working.”
“Well how else would you be able to afford to be such a world traveler?” Mom sighed. “Anyway, I can’t keep up with your fictional life, so when you get it figured out, let me know.”
“Alright, I’ll come up with something good,” I promised.
“Or plausible. I’ll settle for plausible.”
“Plausible is boring. No thanks. You didn’t name me Breeze for nothing.”
* * *
The power of music is a beautiful thing. Transformative.
As the song began, I tapped my boots to the beat. Kelly, a like-minded friend, tipped her beer bottle against mine before jumping from her stool and grabbing my hand. “Let’s go girl. No way can anyone sit still for Luke Bryan.”
Country music—my dirty little secret. One I kept from my family and friends back home. Mason was the only one from that group who knew the truth, and he wouldn’t dare judge after all the crap I’d kept quiet for him throughout the years.
Listening to a specific type of music might seem like no big deal to most. But as the daughter of modern-day San Francisco hippies, I cut my teeth on the likes of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendricks, making my preference for country a darn right sinful admission. So I kept my obsession to myself, spending several nights a week at my favorite haunt, a country western bar. It seemed like an oxymoron, country music fans in Southern California. But we did, in fact, exist. And so did a few establishments catering to my kind.
I hadn’t always been a fan. But my break up with Brandon led me to the healing powers of country music. That and a glaring lack of income. The first few months in this new place were trying—living alone, struggling to pay my bills, and relying solely on my radio for entertainment. That’s when I’d discovered that the only programming that came in clearly was the Spanish language channels and one lowly country western station. Since I couldn’t speak a lick of Spanish, I begrudgingly tuned in to the country. And as each song filled my ears, I realized the music was slowly pulling me out of my post breakup blues. Packed with happiness, love, and persevering over heartbreak —as well as the occasional hunting and fishing story—country music got me through the worst time of my life, and I found myself clinging to its optimistic lyrics and foot stomping beats.
“I can’t dance yet.” I scanned the room for my best friend. “I’m waiting for Mason to get back from the bathroom. I’ve got to get him drunk quickly so he’ll stay.”
Mason was not a country music convert. Not yet anyway. He only came tonight because it was my turn to pick the place. Turnabout was fair play, and if he was content to drag me to strip clubs, it was only right that he pay his dues here. Mason and I had a long history together. We were classmates before we were neighbors, neighbors before we were friends, and friends before we were siblings. The sibling part was honorary. After a particularly nasty episode where Mason’s crazy-ass mother chased him down the block with a butcher knife, he’d sought refuge at my house and never left. But one thing held true to this day, Mason had never been, nor would he ever be, mine.
Like me, Mason lived his own kind of lie. I wish I could say being gay was the biggest secret he kept, but Mason had come out years ago. No, my friend wrestled with demons few could understand, and keeping him afloat had always been my job. So if he sometimes had to suffer through music he abhorred, too damn bad. He owed me.
Kelly grew bored with the one-minute wait and pulled out her phone. Giggling replaced her impatience.
“What?” I asked.
“Damn, little Corey Waldon grew up to be a hottie,” Kelly said, turning the screen toward me. I was expecting to see a face but instead an ass wriggled in my vision.
Hitting replay, I said, “Who’s Corey Waldon?”
Mason slid back onto his stool and took the phone out of Kelly’s hand. “You don’t know who Corey Waldon is? Shame on you.”
“It was the name of the kid brother on the TV show Waldon Road,” Kelly explained.
I shrugged. “Well, if it aired before 2010, I wouldn’t know. My parents didn’t believe in television. They said it stunted growth, made kids stupid, and squashed creativity. Yet here I am standing all of 5’4, can’t tell the difference between my right and my left hand, and the last time I went to the ‘paint with wine’ class my sunset looked like an over easy egg.”
Mason laughed. “I didn’t want to say anything about the painting but…” In fact, he had said something – many times. “You do know Betsy and Terrance used to sneak to the sports bar to watch games, right?”
“What?” It couldn’t be true. My parents, the two people who’d preached the evils of television, slipping away to watch behind my back? I shook my head. “No way.”
“Yeah, my mom used to see them there all the time.”
I didn’t believe it. Not for a second. My parents hated television. I mean,hated it. “She must have confused them with someone else.”
“Yeah, no.” Mason smirked. “Maybeyoudidn’t watch TV before 2010, but your parents sure as hell did.”
“Oh. My. God.” Gaping at Mason, I struggled to come to grips with his insider information, before adding through gritted teeth, “I’m just going to have to kill them both.”
My over-exaggerated response gave Mason a good laugh.
