(Dis)connect
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. April 24, 2010.
John
“What happened to the beer?”
I ask dumbly as I crouch down on the open mini fridge.
“You drank ‘em like they’re water last night.” Garrett says. He’s sitting at the booth, busy on his laptop.
I stare at the fridge, a sigh leaving my lips. There’s a half-full carton of milk. A few bottles of water. A lone stick of butter, which I have no memory of ever needing while we’re on tour. Giving up, I close the door and stand up. The guys are scattered around the bus, all occupied with their own stuff.
“Anyone wanna hit a bar or something?” I ask. I receive a few grunts of rejection.
“You’re gonna get shitfaced tonight?” Jared asks.
I shrug. “I don’t see why not.”
“Oh, because having a crazy busy day tomorrow is not a valid reason to avoid a killer hangover.” Jared rolls his eyes at me.
“Like I ever get hangovers these days.” I retort, leaning my hip on the counter beside me.
Pat stands up from the couch. He pokes his phone to my flat stomach as he walks over to the bunk area, saying, “Is that a beer gut, John?”
“I don’t know, Pat, are those boobs you’re growing?”
“First time you saw a pair, huh?” Pat laughs, and the other guys in the bus soon joins him.
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.” I grab my phone from the counter and slip it into my pocket. “Don’t worry, I’ll be seeing real ones tonight, because unlike you assholes, I’m not idiotic enough to waste a perfect Philly night in this shitty bus.” I exit the bus, mumbling, “Later,” to my friends.
When I reach outside, I see Kennedy standing on the side of the bus, with a phone held against his ear. He notices me and cups his hand on the receiver end of his phone. “Where ya going, man?”
I turn around to face him, walking backwards. I shrug and say, “Wherever my feet will take me.”
•••
As I walk in the busy street, I take in the city lights, a cigarette lazily dangling from my two fingers while the other hand is inside my pocket. I spot a bar down the street and walk over to it. After I finish my cigarette, I go inside.
I make my way directly to the bar, slipping in between groups of people. I sit on a bar stool and tap my fingers on the mahogany counter. The bar is—if anything—very busy. I see this female bartender, fixing up a G&T. She’s about my age, I think. Twenty-one—more or less. Her light brown hair is pulled up in a bun and she has very pale skin. She smiles at a customer as she passes on the glass. I’ll admit that may be one of the most beautiful sights that I have ever seen. Next thing I know, she’s walking over to me.
“Can I get you anything?”
“A beer.” I say, still studying her.
She opens a bottle and hands it to me. “I suppose I don’t need to card you, huh?”
“Why, do I look like a fifteen-year-old to you?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink.
She grins. “I dunno, just a little, I guess.”
I smile. “Well, I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”
She laughs at this. “So why are you alone on such a nice night?”
“I’m on my lonesome tonight,” I say, “not that it bothers me that much.”
She raises her eyebrows. “You got no friends? Not even a girl on your arm?”
“Apparently, my friends seem to think I’m an alcoholic or something.” I shrug, sipping my drink.
“I know that feeling.” She nods.
“You, an alcoholic? Somehow, I doubt that.”
She smirks. “You just don’t know much ‘bout me, that’s all.”
Somehow, I want to change that. “I’m John.” I say.
She nods. “Nice to meet you, John.”
“Not gonna tell me your name?”
“I dunno, is it necessary?”
I smile. “I’d like to think so, yeah.”
“Name’s Morgan.” She says.
The guy beside me says, “Well, that’s nice, Morgan, maybe you can stop flirting for a sec and get me a Jameson on the rocks?”
Morgan chuckles at this and prepares that man’s drink, her amused stare flickering to me every few seconds. As the man receives his drink, he leaves the counter.
“So you’re flirting, huh?” I tease her.
She rolls her eyes at me. “It’s in my job description to keep the customers amused.”
“I hear bartending’s one of the most exciting jobs in the world.” I say as a-matter-of-factly.
Morgan scoffs at me while she wipes some glasses with a cloth. “Please. I serve drinks, listen to strangers bitch about their crappy lives, keep the underage kids in check and most of all, keep them customers amused. It’s no rocket science.”
“You sound like an all-American forty-year-old grump.” I comment, sipping my drink.
She laughs, “What?”
I shrug. “You know, those middle-age people who suddenly realizes that they’ve been wasting their lives on shitty jobs. That is America, girl.”
“Yeah, well, unfortunately for you, this is only a temp job. Once I’m out of school, I’ll be out of this bar, too.”
“School, huh?”
“Yeah.” Morgan says as she pops open a couple of beers and hands them to some customers beside me. “I go to UArts. You?”
“I’m afraid school’s not really my thing.”
She laughs. “So that’s how it goes, huh? You don’t go to school ‘cause you’re not into it?”
I shrug, sipping my beer. “I just thought, why waste thousands of dollars on an education that I don’t really need?”
She sends me a strained look. Once out of customers to serve for now, she turns back to me, resting her elbows on the counter, “So you’re a bum or something?”
She seems too curious, though I don’t understand why. I answer, “Hate to break it you, girl, but I do have a job. I’m in a band.”
Morgan laughs and I gotta admit, I’m a little insulted. She says, “Is that some kind of desperate attempt to score or something? I can’t believe you think I’m one of those girls.”
I raise an eyebrow. “One of those girls?”
“You know, those girls who would give anything after hearing a guy say ‘I’m in a band.’” She scoffs. “It’s ridiculous.”
I laugh now. “No, I really am in a band. The Maine. Heard of us?”
She nods knowingly. “Hey, you’re playing tomorrow night, right? I live near the venue, so I’ve been walking by the sign all week.”
“Yep, we are.”
“So what are you? The singer?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“I hear being in a band is one of the most exciting jobs in the world.” She mimics me.
I roll my eyes. “It is, actually. I get to play music, travel, meet interesting people such as yourself…what more can I ask for?”
“So I’m interesting, huh?” Morgan smirks at me.
“I’m halfway sure about that.” I say, though that’s not even remotely true. I am damn curious already.
“Well, at least, you love your life for now.”
“What?”
She’s about to say something when somebody else calls for her.
“Morgan!”
Morgan turns to face a middle-aged man. “Yes, Earl?”
“I have to talk to you.” Earl says.
Morgan nods her head. She turns back to me and gives me a brief smile before following Earl to the back of the bar. I don’t smile back, as I think about what she last said.
•••
It’s nearly 2 am.
I slip my phone back inside my pocket after checking the time. I continue smoking, just as I have been doing for the past hour, outside the bar. I’ve been sitting at the apartment steps beside the bar, watching people leave, putting an end to their night. I feel like I should do the same, but not just yet. I still have one more thing to do.
After a moment or two, Morgan comes out of the bar, fumbling for something in her bag, as she passes by me. She doesn’t even notice me until I say, “Hey.”
She turns around, startled. When she sees that it’s me, her face breaks into a smile. She walks over to where I’m sitting and stops in front of me, resting her elbow on the railing. “Did you wait for me here?”
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.” I say. “Of course not.”
Morgan raises her eyebrow at me, though she doesn’t question my lie. “So are you lost or something?”
I grin. “Actually, yeah.” Another lie, but I think this one will actually sell to her.
She gives me a smile. “Good luck with that, then.” She walks away and I follow her.
“Okay, fine. I’m not lost. I’ve actually been in this city a handful of times.” I say.
“Then what are you doing here?” She asks. We’re still walking.
“You said something. It just threw me off, I guess.”
“Oh, what? How I primarily didn’t believe that you’re in a band?” She muses.
“No.” I watch her arm swing against her bag, in sync with her feet walking against the pavement. The city is quiet. I mean, I could hear the soles of her shoes constantly collide against the pavement. “You said that at least I love my life for now.”
Morgan furrows her eyebrows. Some of the strands of her hair fall out of her bun because of the wind. “Well, it seemed like you do. Did I miscalculate?”
“For now.” I repeat. “You said I love my life for now. What, you’re some fortune teller or something? You can tell that twenty years down the road, I’ll be a grunt who sleeps while hugging a rifle gun?”
She rolls her eyes at me as we turn on a corner. I have no idea where are we going right now, but I barely care.
She says, “Sorry if it caught up on you. I’ll take it back, if you want.” She offers me a smile.
I scoff. “What is this, elementary, where taking things back will set everything straight?”
She sighs. “I’m sorry. That was a judgmental thing to say.”
“I wanna know why you said that.”
She meets my eyes briefly before turn it back down the empty streets of Philadelphia. “It doesn’t matter, okay, John?”
Still, I pry. “What, just because I’m not building my life in some fancy art school and is just making a living out of petty and juvenile music—”
“I never said your music is petty. The audience, however—”
I scoff. “Oh, please. Classy and sophisticated as you may seem to be is exactly why I didn’t peg you to be a The Maine fan and to even know what kind of crowd we have on our shows.”
She shrugs. “I have a friend who loves your band. But that’s beside the point.” She stops walking in front of me, her hand on my chest briefly to stop me also. “I tend to do this. Judge people. And now, that horrible habit is coming to bite me in the ass.”
I laugh. She smiles at that.
She takes a deep breath before speaking again. “From the information I gathered from you—yes, you’re a singer. You write heartbreaking songs and sing them for the juvenile crowd. Yes, that may not be the most stable job in the world but I’m still wrong for judging that this will end terribly for you. I really am sorry for that.”
“It’s true, being in a band is not the most stable job in the world and tomorrow, our label may drop us, our fans may suddenly hate us or maybe we suddenly lose our creative streaks and can’t make new material. But if twenty years from now, when I’m sitting on a couch in a shitty house, drinking shitty beer, I can always look back to a point in my life where I actually lived.”
After I say that, Morgan just stares at me, her lips slightly parted and her hair blowing over her face. But still, she looks ridiculously beautiful.
I ask, “Do you have that? A point in your life where you actually loved it?”
Morgan gives me a small smile. “No. Not yet anyway.” She chuckles. “I really am not one to judge, am I?”
I chuckle also. “Yeah, you definitely aren’t.”
“So, um, it’s…” she looks down on her watch, “…2:27 am.” She looks back up at me. “And I’m hoping to grab something to eat. Maybe you could join me?” She points her thumb on a 24-hour diner behind her, smiling hopefully at me.
•••
“So tell me something that’s completely unusual about you.” The statement leaves my mouth before I could even think it through. I sip my coffee, waiting for Morgan to say something.
We’re sitting at a booth in the nearly empty diner. Our plates have been long cleared out and now, we’re just sipping coffee and splitting a plate of fries. I have no idea how long we’ve been in here.
Morgan laughs. “Okay, okay.” She sits up, resting her elbows on the table, leaning towards me. “I’m actually named after two comic book characters.”
“Oh, yeah?” I smile at her, my mind already racing, thinking of fictional Morgans that I know of.
She rolls her eyes. “So my name is Morgana Stacy.”
“So Morgan is just a nickname, I get it.” I say, nodding. Then I frown, “But I still don’t know any Morgana or Stacy.”
“See, here’s the ironic part: Morgana is this small-time villain from the Wonder Woman comics and Stacy is Spiderman’s lady love—you know, as in Gwen Stacy. Two completely different women from two different comics.”
I give her an amused look, taking in the history of her name. She rolls her eyes at me.
“I know, my dad’s a total nerd about—naming his only child to these women.” She laughs. “I mean, I used to think that maybe when my mom was pregnant with me, they would fight over my name, since my mom doesn’t live and breathe the fictional world—unlike Dad.” She says then sips her coffee. “So what about you, any interesting stories behind your name?”
I scoff. “You mean the fact that I share my name along with eighty percent of the world’s population?”
Morgan laughs. “So I guess you hate being…not distinctive?”
“You don’t know half of it. I mean, not only do I know, like, a hundred other Johns in my life, I am also the fifth John Cornelius in the family.”
She giggles over her coffee. “That’s—”
“I know, it’s pathetic, right?”
“I was gonna say, that’s the story behind your name but pathetic works, too.”
Morgan laughs some more and I just listen to the sound of it, as if I’m recording it in my head.
After a moment, she sighs. “I wouldn’t blame you for wanting some…uniqueness in your life, since the most consistent thing for anyone—your name—is pretty much the same as most people.”
“It’s not just my name or-or whatever. This lack of distinctiveness is affecting everything in my life.”
“Like what?”
“Like in my job. We try to make music that’s an extension of us, but we’re always tied down by our label, y’know?” I absentmindedly take a fry from the plate and dip it into ketchup, but I still don’t pop it into my mouth. “They always say that be like this and that, be more like whatever band that’s currently big, so that album sales will skyrocket or-or whatever. All we wanted is to be us.” I sigh. “I’m guessing it isn’t the same for you, huh?” I ask her.
“No, it’s not. Both of parents are artists—my dad is a comic book writer and my mom is an architect. That fact alone takes a toll on me—y’know, living to be anything but mediocre.”
“So you’re a bit of an artist, too?”
“I’d like to think so, yeah.” She grins.
“Can I see some of your work?” I ask hopefully.
She grins wider. “Depends—are you willing to sing some of your work here in the diner?”
I look around the almost deserted diner. Shaking my head, I turn back to her. “I think I’ll pass.”
“I thought so.” She says.
I notice how she rubs her eyes with her fingers. When those slender fingers drop from her face and close around the coffee cup, bringing it up to her lips to sip, I see the bags under her eyes. If I’m correct, this would be her fourth cup—and it’s not decaf. She’s obviously exhausted.
So I ask, “Hey, if you’re tired, we can go—”
“I’m fine.” She cuts me off. I look at her doubtfully. She sighs. “No, really, I am.”
I shrug. “If you say so.”
She changes the subject instead. “So tell me, what else does John from The Maine struggle with, other than distinctiveness—or lack thereof.”
“Why do you wanna know?” I tread the waters with a flirty grin in her way.
Morgan shrugs nonchalantly. “You’re pretty interesting yourself, John.”
“I’m just a twenty-one year old musician. What’s there to know?”
She doesn’t answer. I notice that she’s staring at the part of my chest that’s exposed by the low cut of my shirt, clearly trying to read my tattoos.
“We all have been degraded.” I fill in.
Her eyes meet mine. “What?”
“The tattoo—” I pull the collar of my shirt farther down for her to read. “It’s what it says. And the other—”
“That’s a really nice thought.” She comments sarcastically.
I roll my eyes, saying, “As I was saying, ‘We all have been degraded, we all will be the greatest.’”
My gaze falls on her as she smiles. “That’s nice…”
I raise an eyebrow. “No more sarcasm in your voice?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“It’s from one of our songs, you know.”
“Did you write it? The song, I mean.”
I say, nodding my head, “Yeah. I did.”
“What’s it about?” She smirks. “Some chick you fell in love with or something? You know, the usual crap.”
I let out a little laugh. “You know, for a self-proclaimed artist, you sure are pretty adamant about the, uh, sensitive stuff.”
“The sensitive stuff?” She asks amusedly. “Care to enlighten me, please?”
“You know, being in love and all that. Most people get uncomfortable when talking about that. I get the feeling you’re one of them.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes at me. “So what’s the song really ‘bout?”
“It’s about friendship.” I say simply. “Now, what about you? What do you do?”
“Other than being a kickass bartender, you mean?”
“Yes. What do you study in school?”
“Gee, I mentioned I study in some art school…” she takes a deep breath, “…that’s a toughie. I’m gonna go with art.”
I give her a look. “Can you, like, answer in a less general term?”
She laughs as she leans back on her chair, her arms crossed. “I major in fine arts.”
“And what are you gonna be when you get out of school?”
Morgan smirks. “An artist.”
I sigh heavily. “Morgan.”
She laughs. “Okay, okay. I’m kidding. After school, I’m gonna work in my grandfather’s art gallery in Brooklyn. I’m the, uh, sort of like heir of it. My mom became an architect and her sister became a lawyer. So no one else is up for the job but me.”
“Did you study art for him? So that you can handle the business when the time comes?”
“Not entirely, no. I mean, I love art—it’s why I’m here. Having a gallery to inherit is just a bonus.”
I nod. “Who’s your favorite artist?”
I notice how Morgan’s green eyes twinkle at the question. She’s already too excited to gush over it but I cut her off first.
“I’d just like to point out that I’m no art aficionado—that said, I don’t know shit about it. So, fair warning, when you can rant about names, chances are, I haven’t heard of ‘em and probably won’t be able to spell them either.”
She gives me a look. “Then why bother asking?”
“I dunno, you asked me about my music, it’s only fair that I ask you about your stuff.”
Morgan shrugs. “Okay. So I don’t really look into specific artists. Know what I mean? Like-like I love Andy Warhol’s Marylyn Diptych but I seriously hate his version of the Last Supper. You get what I’m saying?”
“So what’s your ultimate favorite artwork?”
Morgan cracks a smile. “My favorite is Gary Thompson’s Walking Down the Street.”
“Why that one?”
She leans her elbows on the table again. “You know those things from your childhood that you just love, even though you have no idea why and regardless of the reasons not to?”
“I guess.” I say slowly.
“That painting is one of those things for me. When I was a kid, I would just sit in my dad’s study and stare at it for hours at a time—I still do sometimes, whenever I’m at my parents’. My grandfather would laugh at my fascination for it. I mean, I was about six or something. How could I understand the gist of the painting when I could barely spell words at that time?” A laugh escapes her lips.
“And does your grandfather get the painting himself?” I question her as I chew on some fries.
Morgan shrugs. “‘Course he does. He made it.”
My eyebrows rise up in surprise. “Your grandfather’s this Thompson guy?”
She nods. “Yes, I believe I just said that.”
“So your family’s a bunch of big shot artists—noted.”
“What about yours? What’s your family like?” She asks.
I can’t help the scowl on my face at the thought of this. Morgan furrows her eyebrows at my expression.
“Hey, it’s cool if you don’t wanna talk about it.”
“It’s fine.” I lean back on my seat. “I love my family and all. But at this point in time, I already feel like the black sheep, y’know? And, mind you, I’m the oldest child. My brothers are just in high school—the other starting college in the fall.” I sigh in defeat. My eyes meet Morgan’s. She’s not pushing for more explanation, she’s just waiting. I continue, “It’s this career choice in music, I know. They—my parents, mostly—think this music is just some kind of phase. I try to give them what they want—I tried to go to college. But after a year, I just had to get out. I couldn’t fool myself any longer. I want to make music and so I stopped giving a shit about what they think…” I trail off. “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this.”
“Because I asked?” She laughs softly.
I watch Morgan’s face as the rising sun from the window beside us shines down on her. Her laugh falters when she meets my stare. I don’t know how long we stared at each other, but I feel like I already have her face memorized. I notice the bags under her eyes really are bigger than I actually thought. Damn, when’s the last time she slept?
“The sun’s rising.” I say stupidly.
“You don’t say.” She grins, making me roll my eyes. “Which reminds me, I have an eight am class.”
I furrow my eyebrows. “Wait a minute, you have an early class and yet, you spent all this time here with me, when you could’ve been sleeping?”
Morgan scoffs. “Please. I don’t even remember what a bed feels like anymore.” She stops a waitress passing by our table. “Can I have the check? Thanks.”
“Serious case of insomnia?” I ask. Although I can survive sleepless nights such as this, I always have to sleep during the day—unlike insomniac people.
She sighs. “I’m pretty much used to it. It’s why I work. Just something to do at night, y’know?”
“Why can’t you sleep?” I ask.
It takes a moment for her to answer. “It’s…my thoughts. They’re so loud. I constantly think of a lot of things when I lay in bed at night. Like when my mind is at its most vulnerable or something. I tried to fix it though—doctor recommended sleeping pills.”
“You take them every night?”
“Some. But once I got the bartending job, I got busy, so…I don’t take ‘em much anymore.”
The waitress comes back with the check and my hand steals it before Morgan could even peek at the total bill. She scowls at me while I leave a few bills on the table. I just give her a smile and we stand up from the booth. When I open the door for her, she gives me a skeptic look as we leave the diner.
“Yes, Morgan?” I laugh.
“It’s nice to know that chivalry isn’t dead yet.” She says.
“I do my humble best to keep it alive and you’re welcome for that.” I say, grinning. “You know, pay for food, open doors…”
“So where are you headed?” She asks, brushing off a few strands of hair from her face.
“To the bus.”
Morgan nods. “This is it, huh? It was fun hanging out with you, John.”
“You could come to the show tonight.” I blurt out. “I could get you a ticket or something…maybe you could bring that friend, who’s a fan, with you…”
She gives me a small, sad smile. “I have a thing tonight, sorry.”
“Oh.” I say, my shoulder slacking, despite the fact that I’m trying my best not to sound disappointed and pathetic. “That’s fine, I guess.” I regain composure and smirk. “Just so we’re clear, you have a thing with a bed and a few sleeping pills or—”
She laughs. “I doubt it.” Her laugh falters as she stares at me. “So I’ll see you around? Or I guess not…”
“Why not?” I ask softly, though in the still-sleeping town, I think she heard me loud and clear.
“You said you live in Arizona and I live here. I seriously doubt I’ll see you around.” She starts walking backwards. “It was great meeting you, John.” She gives me a two-finger salute and a smile before turning around and walking away.
I watch her, my jaw clenched as my mind races a mile a minute. Out of impulse, I run toward her. “Morgan!”
Morgan turns around and faces me, her eyebrows raise in question.
I stop in front of her. I take a deep breath before letting the words come out of my mouth. “I am about to do the stupidest thing ever—I’m even taking my going to college into account here. It’s just, you’re amazing. So fucking, ridiculously amazing. I just met you, like, six hours ago but in those hours with you, I have opened up to you more than I have ever had with everyone I know—combined. And I have no idea why I did that.” I walk closer to her. “I’m about to do something so stupid, even if I have done more with other girls—but you’re not like them. That much I know.”
She swallows hard, bites her lower lip for a second before letting it go. “What is it, John?”
I walk even closer to her, cup her face with one hand and kisses her. I don’t know…the way it feels, I couldn’t describe it. It’s something I have never felt before. My lips move with hers for a moment before she pulls away, pushing at my chest. I close my eyes as her hand drops from my chest. I have never felt more embarrassed in my entire life.
“John, we can’t—I can’t, this is…this is—” She stops talking. I open my eyes and meet her stare.
“I’m sorry.” I say, my gaze dropping on the ground, on our feet. “I told you, I warned you I was about to do something stupid—”
“Damn right you did.” Morgan snaps. I flinch at the sharpness of her voice. She sees this and sighs. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I have a boyfriend.”
My eyes snap back to hers. Scratch the previous statement—this is my most embarrassing moment. “You didn’t tell me that.” I say accusingly.
She mumbles pathetically, “It didn’t come up.”
I scoff. “That’s bullshit. You couldn’t tell me earlier to stop flirting with you because you have a boyfriend?”
“Where do you get off being mad at me? You’re the idiot who thinks he can just kiss me for the hell of it.” Morgan retorts.
I sigh. “You’re right. It’s my fault. Let’s just forget about this.” I start walking away but she pulls at my arm.
“John…”
I turn back to her and see her defeated expression.
“We’re never gonna see each other again. Can we at least end this on a good note?”
Before I know it, I’m giving in. Just like that. “Fine. I’m sorry for throwing myself at you. Can we pretend it didn’t happen?”
Morgan smiles again. My eyes skim over her frame, trying to record everything in my mind. I start from her black flats to the palest legs I have ever seen, her jean shorts with frayed ends, cream-colored blouse under a gray blazer with sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her one hand holding on to the strap of her brown bag that’s hanging around her shoulder. My eyes run over the arc of her neck, her jaw, those pink lips, her green eyes and her light brown hair, which is even lighter under the morning sun. She’s so beautiful.
“I really like you, John. But I have a boyfriend. I make it a point to stick with one man at a time. You know, ‘cause other women have none.”
I laugh. “For women everywhere, huh?”
She laughs also. “For women everywhere.” She repeats.
“I’m sorry this is pretty short-lived.” I say. “It sucks how I don’t get to stick around and wait for you to dump your boyfriend.”
Morgan rolls her eyes. “Goodbye, John.”
“Bye, Morgan.” I give her one last smile before she turns around and walks away—for real, this time. I wait for her to turn on the corner and disappear before I turn on the other way. I take out a cigarette from the pack in my pocket and light it up. I take a long drag before exhaling, letting the Philly sun comfort me as I walk back to where the bus is parked.
“What happened to the beer?”
I ask dumbly as I crouch down on the open mini fridge.
“You drank ‘em like they’re water last night.” Garrett says. He’s sitting at the booth, busy on his laptop.
I stare at the fridge, a sigh leaving my lips. There’s a half-full carton of milk. A few bottles of water. A lone stick of butter, which I have no memory of ever needing while we’re on tour. Giving up, I close the door and stand up. The guys are scattered around the bus, all occupied with their own stuff.
“Anyone wanna hit a bar or something?” I ask. I receive a few grunts of rejection.
“You’re gonna get shitfaced tonight?” Jared asks.
I shrug. “I don’t see why not.”
“Oh, because having a crazy busy day tomorrow is not a valid reason to avoid a killer hangover.” Jared rolls his eyes at me.
“Like I ever get hangovers these days.” I retort, leaning my hip on the counter beside me.
Pat stands up from the couch. He pokes his phone to my flat stomach as he walks over to the bunk area, saying, “Is that a beer gut, John?”
“I don’t know, Pat, are those boobs you’re growing?”
“First time you saw a pair, huh?” Pat laughs, and the other guys in the bus soon joins him.
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.” I grab my phone from the counter and slip it into my pocket. “Don’t worry, I’ll be seeing real ones tonight, because unlike you assholes, I’m not idiotic enough to waste a perfect Philly night in this shitty bus.” I exit the bus, mumbling, “Later,” to my friends.
When I reach outside, I see Kennedy standing on the side of the bus, with a phone held against his ear. He notices me and cups his hand on the receiver end of his phone. “Where ya going, man?”
I turn around to face him, walking backwards. I shrug and say, “Wherever my feet will take me.”
•••
As I walk in the busy street, I take in the city lights, a cigarette lazily dangling from my two fingers while the other hand is inside my pocket. I spot a bar down the street and walk over to it. After I finish my cigarette, I go inside.
I make my way directly to the bar, slipping in between groups of people. I sit on a bar stool and tap my fingers on the mahogany counter. The bar is—if anything—very busy. I see this female bartender, fixing up a G&T. She’s about my age, I think. Twenty-one—more or less. Her light brown hair is pulled up in a bun and she has very pale skin. She smiles at a customer as she passes on the glass. I’ll admit that may be one of the most beautiful sights that I have ever seen. Next thing I know, she’s walking over to me.
“Can I get you anything?”
“A beer.” I say, still studying her.
She opens a bottle and hands it to me. “I suppose I don’t need to card you, huh?”
“Why, do I look like a fifteen-year-old to you?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink.
She grins. “I dunno, just a little, I guess.”
I smile. “Well, I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”
She laughs at this. “So why are you alone on such a nice night?”
“I’m on my lonesome tonight,” I say, “not that it bothers me that much.”
She raises her eyebrows. “You got no friends? Not even a girl on your arm?”
“Apparently, my friends seem to think I’m an alcoholic or something.” I shrug, sipping my drink.
“I know that feeling.” She nods.
“You, an alcoholic? Somehow, I doubt that.”
She smirks. “You just don’t know much ‘bout me, that’s all.”
Somehow, I want to change that. “I’m John.” I say.
She nods. “Nice to meet you, John.”
“Not gonna tell me your name?”
“I dunno, is it necessary?”
I smile. “I’d like to think so, yeah.”
“Name’s Morgan.” She says.
The guy beside me says, “Well, that’s nice, Morgan, maybe you can stop flirting for a sec and get me a Jameson on the rocks?”
Morgan chuckles at this and prepares that man’s drink, her amused stare flickering to me every few seconds. As the man receives his drink, he leaves the counter.
“So you’re flirting, huh?” I tease her.
She rolls her eyes at me. “It’s in my job description to keep the customers amused.”
“I hear bartending’s one of the most exciting jobs in the world.” I say as a-matter-of-factly.
Morgan scoffs at me while she wipes some glasses with a cloth. “Please. I serve drinks, listen to strangers bitch about their crappy lives, keep the underage kids in check and most of all, keep them customers amused. It’s no rocket science.”
“You sound like an all-American forty-year-old grump.” I comment, sipping my drink.
She laughs, “What?”
I shrug. “You know, those middle-age people who suddenly realizes that they’ve been wasting their lives on shitty jobs. That is America, girl.”
“Yeah, well, unfortunately for you, this is only a temp job. Once I’m out of school, I’ll be out of this bar, too.”
“School, huh?”
“Yeah.” Morgan says as she pops open a couple of beers and hands them to some customers beside me. “I go to UArts. You?”
“I’m afraid school’s not really my thing.”
She laughs. “So that’s how it goes, huh? You don’t go to school ‘cause you’re not into it?”
I shrug, sipping my beer. “I just thought, why waste thousands of dollars on an education that I don’t really need?”
She sends me a strained look. Once out of customers to serve for now, she turns back to me, resting her elbows on the counter, “So you’re a bum or something?”
She seems too curious, though I don’t understand why. I answer, “Hate to break it you, girl, but I do have a job. I’m in a band.”
Morgan laughs and I gotta admit, I’m a little insulted. She says, “Is that some kind of desperate attempt to score or something? I can’t believe you think I’m one of those girls.”
I raise an eyebrow. “One of those girls?”
“You know, those girls who would give anything after hearing a guy say ‘I’m in a band.’” She scoffs. “It’s ridiculous.”
I laugh now. “No, I really am in a band. The Maine. Heard of us?”
She nods knowingly. “Hey, you’re playing tomorrow night, right? I live near the venue, so I’ve been walking by the sign all week.”
“Yep, we are.”
“So what are you? The singer?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“I hear being in a band is one of the most exciting jobs in the world.” She mimics me.
I roll my eyes. “It is, actually. I get to play music, travel, meet interesting people such as yourself…what more can I ask for?”
“So I’m interesting, huh?” Morgan smirks at me.
“I’m halfway sure about that.” I say, though that’s not even remotely true. I am damn curious already.
“Well, at least, you love your life for now.”
“What?”
She’s about to say something when somebody else calls for her.
“Morgan!”
Morgan turns to face a middle-aged man. “Yes, Earl?”
“I have to talk to you.” Earl says.
Morgan nods her head. She turns back to me and gives me a brief smile before following Earl to the back of the bar. I don’t smile back, as I think about what she last said.
•••
It’s nearly 2 am.
I slip my phone back inside my pocket after checking the time. I continue smoking, just as I have been doing for the past hour, outside the bar. I’ve been sitting at the apartment steps beside the bar, watching people leave, putting an end to their night. I feel like I should do the same, but not just yet. I still have one more thing to do.
After a moment or two, Morgan comes out of the bar, fumbling for something in her bag, as she passes by me. She doesn’t even notice me until I say, “Hey.”
She turns around, startled. When she sees that it’s me, her face breaks into a smile. She walks over to where I’m sitting and stops in front of me, resting her elbow on the railing. “Did you wait for me here?”
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.” I say. “Of course not.”
Morgan raises her eyebrow at me, though she doesn’t question my lie. “So are you lost or something?”
I grin. “Actually, yeah.” Another lie, but I think this one will actually sell to her.
She gives me a smile. “Good luck with that, then.” She walks away and I follow her.
“Okay, fine. I’m not lost. I’ve actually been in this city a handful of times.” I say.
“Then what are you doing here?” She asks. We’re still walking.
“You said something. It just threw me off, I guess.”
“Oh, what? How I primarily didn’t believe that you’re in a band?” She muses.
“No.” I watch her arm swing against her bag, in sync with her feet walking against the pavement. The city is quiet. I mean, I could hear the soles of her shoes constantly collide against the pavement. “You said that at least I love my life for now.”
Morgan furrows her eyebrows. Some of the strands of her hair fall out of her bun because of the wind. “Well, it seemed like you do. Did I miscalculate?”
“For now.” I repeat. “You said I love my life for now. What, you’re some fortune teller or something? You can tell that twenty years down the road, I’ll be a grunt who sleeps while hugging a rifle gun?”
She rolls her eyes at me as we turn on a corner. I have no idea where are we going right now, but I barely care.
She says, “Sorry if it caught up on you. I’ll take it back, if you want.” She offers me a smile.
I scoff. “What is this, elementary, where taking things back will set everything straight?”
She sighs. “I’m sorry. That was a judgmental thing to say.”
“I wanna know why you said that.”
She meets my eyes briefly before turn it back down the empty streets of Philadelphia. “It doesn’t matter, okay, John?”
Still, I pry. “What, just because I’m not building my life in some fancy art school and is just making a living out of petty and juvenile music—”
“I never said your music is petty. The audience, however—”
I scoff. “Oh, please. Classy and sophisticated as you may seem to be is exactly why I didn’t peg you to be a The Maine fan and to even know what kind of crowd we have on our shows.”
She shrugs. “I have a friend who loves your band. But that’s beside the point.” She stops walking in front of me, her hand on my chest briefly to stop me also. “I tend to do this. Judge people. And now, that horrible habit is coming to bite me in the ass.”
I laugh. She smiles at that.
She takes a deep breath before speaking again. “From the information I gathered from you—yes, you’re a singer. You write heartbreaking songs and sing them for the juvenile crowd. Yes, that may not be the most stable job in the world but I’m still wrong for judging that this will end terribly for you. I really am sorry for that.”
“It’s true, being in a band is not the most stable job in the world and tomorrow, our label may drop us, our fans may suddenly hate us or maybe we suddenly lose our creative streaks and can’t make new material. But if twenty years from now, when I’m sitting on a couch in a shitty house, drinking shitty beer, I can always look back to a point in my life where I actually lived.”
After I say that, Morgan just stares at me, her lips slightly parted and her hair blowing over her face. But still, she looks ridiculously beautiful.
I ask, “Do you have that? A point in your life where you actually loved it?”
Morgan gives me a small smile. “No. Not yet anyway.” She chuckles. “I really am not one to judge, am I?”
I chuckle also. “Yeah, you definitely aren’t.”
“So, um, it’s…” she looks down on her watch, “…2:27 am.” She looks back up at me. “And I’m hoping to grab something to eat. Maybe you could join me?” She points her thumb on a 24-hour diner behind her, smiling hopefully at me.
•••
“So tell me something that’s completely unusual about you.” The statement leaves my mouth before I could even think it through. I sip my coffee, waiting for Morgan to say something.
We’re sitting at a booth in the nearly empty diner. Our plates have been long cleared out and now, we’re just sipping coffee and splitting a plate of fries. I have no idea how long we’ve been in here.
Morgan laughs. “Okay, okay.” She sits up, resting her elbows on the table, leaning towards me. “I’m actually named after two comic book characters.”
“Oh, yeah?” I smile at her, my mind already racing, thinking of fictional Morgans that I know of.
She rolls her eyes. “So my name is Morgana Stacy.”
“So Morgan is just a nickname, I get it.” I say, nodding. Then I frown, “But I still don’t know any Morgana or Stacy.”
“See, here’s the ironic part: Morgana is this small-time villain from the Wonder Woman comics and Stacy is Spiderman’s lady love—you know, as in Gwen Stacy. Two completely different women from two different comics.”
I give her an amused look, taking in the history of her name. She rolls her eyes at me.
“I know, my dad’s a total nerd about—naming his only child to these women.” She laughs. “I mean, I used to think that maybe when my mom was pregnant with me, they would fight over my name, since my mom doesn’t live and breathe the fictional world—unlike Dad.” She says then sips her coffee. “So what about you, any interesting stories behind your name?”
I scoff. “You mean the fact that I share my name along with eighty percent of the world’s population?”
Morgan laughs. “So I guess you hate being…not distinctive?”
“You don’t know half of it. I mean, not only do I know, like, a hundred other Johns in my life, I am also the fifth John Cornelius in the family.”
She giggles over her coffee. “That’s—”
“I know, it’s pathetic, right?”
“I was gonna say, that’s the story behind your name but pathetic works, too.”
Morgan laughs some more and I just listen to the sound of it, as if I’m recording it in my head.
After a moment, she sighs. “I wouldn’t blame you for wanting some…uniqueness in your life, since the most consistent thing for anyone—your name—is pretty much the same as most people.”
“It’s not just my name or-or whatever. This lack of distinctiveness is affecting everything in my life.”
“Like what?”
“Like in my job. We try to make music that’s an extension of us, but we’re always tied down by our label, y’know?” I absentmindedly take a fry from the plate and dip it into ketchup, but I still don’t pop it into my mouth. “They always say that be like this and that, be more like whatever band that’s currently big, so that album sales will skyrocket or-or whatever. All we wanted is to be us.” I sigh. “I’m guessing it isn’t the same for you, huh?” I ask her.
“No, it’s not. Both of parents are artists—my dad is a comic book writer and my mom is an architect. That fact alone takes a toll on me—y’know, living to be anything but mediocre.”
“So you’re a bit of an artist, too?”
“I’d like to think so, yeah.” She grins.
“Can I see some of your work?” I ask hopefully.
She grins wider. “Depends—are you willing to sing some of your work here in the diner?”
I look around the almost deserted diner. Shaking my head, I turn back to her. “I think I’ll pass.”
“I thought so.” She says.
I notice how she rubs her eyes with her fingers. When those slender fingers drop from her face and close around the coffee cup, bringing it up to her lips to sip, I see the bags under her eyes. If I’m correct, this would be her fourth cup—and it’s not decaf. She’s obviously exhausted.
So I ask, “Hey, if you’re tired, we can go—”
“I’m fine.” She cuts me off. I look at her doubtfully. She sighs. “No, really, I am.”
I shrug. “If you say so.”
She changes the subject instead. “So tell me, what else does John from The Maine struggle with, other than distinctiveness—or lack thereof.”
“Why do you wanna know?” I tread the waters with a flirty grin in her way.
Morgan shrugs nonchalantly. “You’re pretty interesting yourself, John.”
“I’m just a twenty-one year old musician. What’s there to know?”
She doesn’t answer. I notice that she’s staring at the part of my chest that’s exposed by the low cut of my shirt, clearly trying to read my tattoos.
“We all have been degraded.” I fill in.
Her eyes meet mine. “What?”
“The tattoo—” I pull the collar of my shirt farther down for her to read. “It’s what it says. And the other—”
“That’s a really nice thought.” She comments sarcastically.
I roll my eyes, saying, “As I was saying, ‘We all have been degraded, we all will be the greatest.’”
My gaze falls on her as she smiles. “That’s nice…”
I raise an eyebrow. “No more sarcasm in your voice?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“It’s from one of our songs, you know.”
“Did you write it? The song, I mean.”
I say, nodding my head, “Yeah. I did.”
“What’s it about?” She smirks. “Some chick you fell in love with or something? You know, the usual crap.”
I let out a little laugh. “You know, for a self-proclaimed artist, you sure are pretty adamant about the, uh, sensitive stuff.”
“The sensitive stuff?” She asks amusedly. “Care to enlighten me, please?”
“You know, being in love and all that. Most people get uncomfortable when talking about that. I get the feeling you’re one of them.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes at me. “So what’s the song really ‘bout?”
“It’s about friendship.” I say simply. “Now, what about you? What do you do?”
“Other than being a kickass bartender, you mean?”
“Yes. What do you study in school?”
“Gee, I mentioned I study in some art school…” she takes a deep breath, “…that’s a toughie. I’m gonna go with art.”
I give her a look. “Can you, like, answer in a less general term?”
She laughs as she leans back on her chair, her arms crossed. “I major in fine arts.”
“And what are you gonna be when you get out of school?”
Morgan smirks. “An artist.”
I sigh heavily. “Morgan.”
She laughs. “Okay, okay. I’m kidding. After school, I’m gonna work in my grandfather’s art gallery in Brooklyn. I’m the, uh, sort of like heir of it. My mom became an architect and her sister became a lawyer. So no one else is up for the job but me.”
“Did you study art for him? So that you can handle the business when the time comes?”
“Not entirely, no. I mean, I love art—it’s why I’m here. Having a gallery to inherit is just a bonus.”
I nod. “Who’s your favorite artist?”
I notice how Morgan’s green eyes twinkle at the question. She’s already too excited to gush over it but I cut her off first.
“I’d just like to point out that I’m no art aficionado—that said, I don’t know shit about it. So, fair warning, when you can rant about names, chances are, I haven’t heard of ‘em and probably won’t be able to spell them either.”
She gives me a look. “Then why bother asking?”
“I dunno, you asked me about my music, it’s only fair that I ask you about your stuff.”
Morgan shrugs. “Okay. So I don’t really look into specific artists. Know what I mean? Like-like I love Andy Warhol’s Marylyn Diptych but I seriously hate his version of the Last Supper. You get what I’m saying?”
“So what’s your ultimate favorite artwork?”
Morgan cracks a smile. “My favorite is Gary Thompson’s Walking Down the Street.”
“Why that one?”
She leans her elbows on the table again. “You know those things from your childhood that you just love, even though you have no idea why and regardless of the reasons not to?”
“I guess.” I say slowly.
“That painting is one of those things for me. When I was a kid, I would just sit in my dad’s study and stare at it for hours at a time—I still do sometimes, whenever I’m at my parents’. My grandfather would laugh at my fascination for it. I mean, I was about six or something. How could I understand the gist of the painting when I could barely spell words at that time?” A laugh escapes her lips.
“And does your grandfather get the painting himself?” I question her as I chew on some fries.
Morgan shrugs. “‘Course he does. He made it.”
My eyebrows rise up in surprise. “Your grandfather’s this Thompson guy?”
She nods. “Yes, I believe I just said that.”
“So your family’s a bunch of big shot artists—noted.”
“What about yours? What’s your family like?” She asks.
I can’t help the scowl on my face at the thought of this. Morgan furrows her eyebrows at my expression.
“Hey, it’s cool if you don’t wanna talk about it.”
“It’s fine.” I lean back on my seat. “I love my family and all. But at this point in time, I already feel like the black sheep, y’know? And, mind you, I’m the oldest child. My brothers are just in high school—the other starting college in the fall.” I sigh in defeat. My eyes meet Morgan’s. She’s not pushing for more explanation, she’s just waiting. I continue, “It’s this career choice in music, I know. They—my parents, mostly—think this music is just some kind of phase. I try to give them what they want—I tried to go to college. But after a year, I just had to get out. I couldn’t fool myself any longer. I want to make music and so I stopped giving a shit about what they think…” I trail off. “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this.”
“Because I asked?” She laughs softly.
I watch Morgan’s face as the rising sun from the window beside us shines down on her. Her laugh falters when she meets my stare. I don’t know how long we stared at each other, but I feel like I already have her face memorized. I notice the bags under her eyes really are bigger than I actually thought. Damn, when’s the last time she slept?
“The sun’s rising.” I say stupidly.
“You don’t say.” She grins, making me roll my eyes. “Which reminds me, I have an eight am class.”
I furrow my eyebrows. “Wait a minute, you have an early class and yet, you spent all this time here with me, when you could’ve been sleeping?”
Morgan scoffs. “Please. I don’t even remember what a bed feels like anymore.” She stops a waitress passing by our table. “Can I have the check? Thanks.”
“Serious case of insomnia?” I ask. Although I can survive sleepless nights such as this, I always have to sleep during the day—unlike insomniac people.
She sighs. “I’m pretty much used to it. It’s why I work. Just something to do at night, y’know?”
“Why can’t you sleep?” I ask.
It takes a moment for her to answer. “It’s…my thoughts. They’re so loud. I constantly think of a lot of things when I lay in bed at night. Like when my mind is at its most vulnerable or something. I tried to fix it though—doctor recommended sleeping pills.”
“You take them every night?”
“Some. But once I got the bartending job, I got busy, so…I don’t take ‘em much anymore.”
The waitress comes back with the check and my hand steals it before Morgan could even peek at the total bill. She scowls at me while I leave a few bills on the table. I just give her a smile and we stand up from the booth. When I open the door for her, she gives me a skeptic look as we leave the diner.
“Yes, Morgan?” I laugh.
“It’s nice to know that chivalry isn’t dead yet.” She says.
“I do my humble best to keep it alive and you’re welcome for that.” I say, grinning. “You know, pay for food, open doors…”
“So where are you headed?” She asks, brushing off a few strands of hair from her face.
“To the bus.”
Morgan nods. “This is it, huh? It was fun hanging out with you, John.”
“You could come to the show tonight.” I blurt out. “I could get you a ticket or something…maybe you could bring that friend, who’s a fan, with you…”
She gives me a small, sad smile. “I have a thing tonight, sorry.”
“Oh.” I say, my shoulder slacking, despite the fact that I’m trying my best not to sound disappointed and pathetic. “That’s fine, I guess.” I regain composure and smirk. “Just so we’re clear, you have a thing with a bed and a few sleeping pills or—”
She laughs. “I doubt it.” Her laugh falters as she stares at me. “So I’ll see you around? Or I guess not…”
“Why not?” I ask softly, though in the still-sleeping town, I think she heard me loud and clear.
“You said you live in Arizona and I live here. I seriously doubt I’ll see you around.” She starts walking backwards. “It was great meeting you, John.” She gives me a two-finger salute and a smile before turning around and walking away.
I watch her, my jaw clenched as my mind races a mile a minute. Out of impulse, I run toward her. “Morgan!”
Morgan turns around and faces me, her eyebrows raise in question.
I stop in front of her. I take a deep breath before letting the words come out of my mouth. “I am about to do the stupidest thing ever—I’m even taking my going to college into account here. It’s just, you’re amazing. So fucking, ridiculously amazing. I just met you, like, six hours ago but in those hours with you, I have opened up to you more than I have ever had with everyone I know—combined. And I have no idea why I did that.” I walk closer to her. “I’m about to do something so stupid, even if I have done more with other girls—but you’re not like them. That much I know.”
She swallows hard, bites her lower lip for a second before letting it go. “What is it, John?”
I walk even closer to her, cup her face with one hand and kisses her. I don’t know…the way it feels, I couldn’t describe it. It’s something I have never felt before. My lips move with hers for a moment before she pulls away, pushing at my chest. I close my eyes as her hand drops from my chest. I have never felt more embarrassed in my entire life.
“John, we can’t—I can’t, this is…this is—” She stops talking. I open my eyes and meet her stare.
“I’m sorry.” I say, my gaze dropping on the ground, on our feet. “I told you, I warned you I was about to do something stupid—”
“Damn right you did.” Morgan snaps. I flinch at the sharpness of her voice. She sees this and sighs. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I have a boyfriend.”
My eyes snap back to hers. Scratch the previous statement—this is my most embarrassing moment. “You didn’t tell me that.” I say accusingly.
She mumbles pathetically, “It didn’t come up.”
I scoff. “That’s bullshit. You couldn’t tell me earlier to stop flirting with you because you have a boyfriend?”
“Where do you get off being mad at me? You’re the idiot who thinks he can just kiss me for the hell of it.” Morgan retorts.
I sigh. “You’re right. It’s my fault. Let’s just forget about this.” I start walking away but she pulls at my arm.
“John…”
I turn back to her and see her defeated expression.
“We’re never gonna see each other again. Can we at least end this on a good note?”
Before I know it, I’m giving in. Just like that. “Fine. I’m sorry for throwing myself at you. Can we pretend it didn’t happen?”
Morgan smiles again. My eyes skim over her frame, trying to record everything in my mind. I start from her black flats to the palest legs I have ever seen, her jean shorts with frayed ends, cream-colored blouse under a gray blazer with sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her one hand holding on to the strap of her brown bag that’s hanging around her shoulder. My eyes run over the arc of her neck, her jaw, those pink lips, her green eyes and her light brown hair, which is even lighter under the morning sun. She’s so beautiful.
“I really like you, John. But I have a boyfriend. I make it a point to stick with one man at a time. You know, ‘cause other women have none.”
I laugh. “For women everywhere, huh?”
She laughs also. “For women everywhere.” She repeats.
“I’m sorry this is pretty short-lived.” I say. “It sucks how I don’t get to stick around and wait for you to dump your boyfriend.”
Morgan rolls her eyes. “Goodbye, John.”
“Bye, Morgan.” I give her one last smile before she turns around and walks away—for real, this time. I wait for her to turn on the corner and disappear before I turn on the other way. I take out a cigarette from the pack in my pocket and light it up. I take a long drag before exhaling, letting the Philly sun comfort me as I walk back to where the bus is parked.