by Josh Cook
He seems like my destiny, that guy with the pre-torn jeans and the ducktail beard. His shamrock eyes lock with mine as he takes the stage at the Casual Spooner’s open-mic night, thrumming his guitar and stroking his mocha-toned mane. The bar is packed, but the husky intonations and sparkling flourishes of “She Belongs to Me” are meant for an audience of one. He buys me a drink afterward, tells me his name’s Abe, that he’s just moved to town from Alpaca. Its cold-blooded conservatism strangled his spirit, he says. He escaped to be surrounded by people more in tune with his style. Here, too, he can find beauty, and — aiming the mouth of his pale ale at me — beauty can find him. He says he likes being found, but that he’s not sure he has been, because he’s lost in my eyes.
He moves in with me two weeks later.
I work in a firm downtown and he does the day shift at the lumber yard, which means that we have our nights together. We spend them cuddling, mostly, and talking about our dreams. I want to find a company where I won’t be told that my
emails should “smile more” — meaning, I guess, that I’m not using enough emojis in my professional correspondence. (“Pssh,” Abe says to that.) He’d like to start a Dylan tribute outfit called Highway 61 Re-Revisited. For now, he’s content to regale me with private performances of “I Want You” and “Visions of Johanna.” His gravelly crooning lulls me to peaceful sleep, where visions of our future play out on the screen of my subconscious.
And then the quarantine hits.
I’m fortunate to be able to work from home. Abe, however, is put on furlough after Week Three. He hasn’t been too worried — is so cavalier about it, in fact, that he launches into “Mr. Tambourine Man” while promenading around my living
room in his underwear. This is unexpected, sexy, and fun for the first few days, a welcome distraction from my endowment reports and emojiless emails. But just when I think he’s done, he turns round, takes a breath, and busts out “Tangled Up in Blue.” This is usually followed by “The Man in Me,” “Desolation Row,” and, finally, “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” though perhaps”Idiot Wind” would be an even more fitting close.
The relentless nasal twang will be the death of me. I know it wouldn’t be right to kick him to the curb in the middle of a global pandemic. But he interprets my intimations that his act is wearing thin as requests for “Ballad of a Thin Man.” If I
object, he’ll only counter with “Just Like a Woman.” I fear that before long he’ll be drifting downstairs, stark naked, and whispering, the flamesof passion flickering in his shamrock eyes, “I’ve learned ‘Murder Most Foul.'” Hopefully, by then the quarantine will have been lifted, and I’ll have found someone who likes to play a little Neil Young for a change.
Josh Cook received an MA in English from Indiana University in 2009 and is currently working toward an MFA in Creative Writing through Lindenwood University. He maintains a blog at thefakejarvis.blogspot.com.
