Chapter Sixteen: Patience

Patience: all things have their time and season; patience can’t be rushed, or practiced enough…be patient, starting now!

Mimi, broke, unemployed, and optimistic, has never felt more alive. She is physically fit from running with Molly and Ben; her garden is home to four varieties of basil, a party pack of zinnias, and colorful nonpoisonous writing spiders. Mimi is happy in the moment, and reeling from Jake’s latest letter.

Dear Mimi,
Finally, I’m discovering what it takes to play professionally. Musically, I have the right stuff! The only thing missing is that you are there and I am here. When I get home, and if you’re willing, let’s take our friendship up a notch and see if we have what it takes to mesh our lives together. I am consumed with my own ego stroking right now, but the real quality hours are the ones in which I allow myself to be consumed by thoughts of you. I hope you like the compass – all girl scouts need a homing device. I am East Northeast of you and separated by a couple of oceans and some dirt. Dial me in and remember: we look at the same moon, only my moon is six hours older than yours.
Love, Jake

Dear Jake,
I am awake and think that you are, too, although the moon has gone to bed in your town and is beaming in mine. I walked to the apple orchard today, ran my hands down warm wooden limbs, and an apple tree talked to me; it said you want to make love to me here. So, I climbed the tree and listened closely and, sure enough, the tree spoke again. I am the love apple tree, it said. Climb my branches without worry of falling. The ground under me is soft and even if you fall, it will only hurt for a minute. Then I ran home and ate the chocolate icing off of four brownies for dinner. Trees are talking to me, Jake. I’m on a sugar high. Come home and save me from insulin shock and schizophrenia.
Love, Mimi

Mimi discovers a barn across Jenkin’s Creek and through the woods, a barn full of cobwebs, black snakes, twelve happy horses; David, the crusty old barn owner, is looking for a reliable hand. “Are you sure you want this job? I can’t pay you what you’re used to making; I can’t even come close; eight dollars an hour, no raises. But see that big bay Thoroughbred over there? His owner died four months ago – he needs his own person. Name’s Cajun. He’s only eight, and he’s in good shape, but he’s blind in one eye. A little crazy, maybe, and he scares most people, but he’s totally harmless, sound as a C-note, and a sweet ride once you gain his trust.”
Mimi pulls on the bill of her baseball cap and extends her hand to David. “When do I start?”

Odessa and her band hop the fast train to Amsterdam’s Centraal Station, the main terminal located in the heart of the city. Upon debarking, Jake closes his eyes and makes a slow, complete circle, moving with the grace of a guru meditating to the four corners of the world. Accordian to the East of me; percussion to the North of me; trumpet to the West of me; guitar to the South of me. Jake’s prayer ends and he opens his eyes; he’s surrounded by the music of street performers, surrounded by the Zen of Dam Square.
The concierge at The American Hotel immediately recognizes Odessa, breezes her through check-in, and upgrades her to a large, elegantly decorated private room. The band shares a huge suite recently occupied by Prince. They know this because the bellboy tells them so, tells them that Prince is a really good tipper. Jake tips the bellboy Dfl 120, over fifty American dollars, and the bellboy grins and tells Jake he is a better tipper than Prince. “If there’s anything you need, you ask for Werner,” the stocky blonde bellboy says. “I am your man. I am also a sound technician at the Bimhuis and am available to help move your equipment as you have a lot of equipment to move,” Werner continues. “I will be your roadie. I know all of the clubs and am affordable.” The band adopts Werner as its very own runner and personal assistant. Everyone is very kind to Werner; he is maybe eighteen, certainly no older, and they all remember being eighteen. Even twenty-seven year old Marc feels like a father to Werner.
Jake takes a hot shower while March and Peter peruse the gift shop and pick out trinkets for their mothers. Franz orders room service, orders enough food to feed the entire band and a hungry audience. Odessa keeps to herself and writes a love letter to her husband. A couple of hours later Werner knocks on the door and offers a guided tour of the Red Light District, but nobody’s interested; they’ve been on the Reeperbahn. Werner’s face drops, but only momentarily. Jake tosses him a bone. “Let’s go, young man, just not there. Take me anywhere else.”
“Okay, Jake!” Werner’s enthusiasm reminds Jake of a happy puppy – he’s all but jumping on the furniture. “What would you like to see?”
Jake grabs a bottle of water on the way out. “Lead on, Scout. I will follow you; just take it easy on me. I’m a little tired and don’t want to stay out too late. Tomorrow will be fairly intense.”
“Do you smoke, Jake?”
Jake pauses. “Smoke what?”
“Hashish.”
“I take an occasional toke of high-grade marijuana, but it’s been awhile since I’ve smoked hash.” A hint of nostalgia creeps into Jake’s voice.
Werner shrugs. “What’s the difference?”
Jake’s eyes smile. “Oh, about one-hundred-eighty degrees of buzz.” Remembering he’s talking to a kid, Jake addresses Werner in his best parental voice. “Are you old enough to legally smoke hash, young man?”
Werner grins. “Yeah, I just don’t because it makes me sleepy. Do you want to go to a smoke house? I’ll go with you and make sure you get back here safely.”
Jake thinks about the negative consequence of taking that action, and finding none, says, “Okay, I’d like to check out that scene. Yeah, yeah, take me to a smoke house, Werner. Peter, you wanna go?”
Peter hunkers down on the sofa, remote in hand. “No way, man. I made the mistake of buying off the street last year and got into some trouble. But, will you bring some back for me?” Peter scootches onto his left side, and, striking an impressive plank-like yoga pose, deftly frees a thick wallet from his right hip pocket. Noticing Jake’s hesitation, Peter explains. “You can legally possess up to thirty grams, but you can only buy five grams at a time. Here, Werner,” says Peter as he shoves some bills in the boy’s hand, “buy whatever’s best.”
Even Jake knows better than to buy on the street. He’s heard about the dubious quality of street hash from other musicians, knows that local authorities frown on drug activity on public sidewalks. Why would Peter take a chance on having a bad experience when he can walk right in, order legally, and smoke as much as he can stand? “Yeah, you’re the textbook example of crazy musician,” Jake says as he punches Peter on the arm. “Stupidity should be painful, man.”

Of the smoking coffee houses, The Bulldog is the most prolific with branches scattered around the city. But Werner takes Jake to Blue Bird, which serves fewer people at night than the others, although it appears as if some of its patrons haven’t moved from their overstuffed chairs in several days.
Jake walks into the Blue Bird, and, captivated by the atmosphere, is immediately at ease. Hand painted murals cover the interior walls; the vibe is happy and friendly. Two large menu books displaying samples of each variety of marijuana scream for Jake’s attention until he spies “The Book of Dreams.” My God, Jake thinks, am I in Wonderland? Slap my fanny and call me Alice. “We Pride Ourselves on Exceptional Hashish at Attractive Prices!” Jake gets a contact high by simply reading that line from the Dreambook out loud, a little drool forming in the corner of his mouth as he studies the twenty varieties of hashish available for purchase. Jake buys black hash, the stickiest, skankiest, and most potent hash on the menu, a five gram bag of soft black hash for around eleven American dollars, and Werner buys five grams for Peter.
Jake loads a water pipe, inhales carefully the first time and deeply the second. “Be careful, Jake; I mean no offense, but you are an old man,” warns Werner. Jake chuckles as he leans back in his chair. “And you are an old soul, Werner.” Werner orders two coffees and two slices of apple pie with ice cream and observes as Jake melts into an altered state; first, silent relaxation, but within minutes, he’s talkative, and hungry for the pie. Mimi appears as a smiling apparition in the pie crust, prompting Jake to close his eyes and croon. “Werner, I have a friend back home who is taking care of my dog. I’m falling in love with her.”
“Does she love you back?”
“I don’t know…I hope so.” Jake opens his eyes and smiles at Werner. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Yes, I have a baby.”
“Babies having babies,” Jake tenderly says with no judgment. “Are you in love with the mother?”
“No,” Werner states, “I’m only in love with the baby. Nika and I never married. She lives next door with her family. We have been friends since we were children; she is like a sister to me.” Jake considers this unlikely detail of Werner’s life, and thinks he may have underestimated his youthful friend’s adult status. “This is enough for you?” Werner nods emphatically. “More than enough. It works out well – lots of babysitters! But, I want to hear more about your friend.” Jake tries to sit up straight, but finding the effort fruitless, settles back into the people-eating, scarred leathered chair. “Ah, Werner, Mimi’s beautiful. She has long brown hair and hazel eyes that are expressive of a kind and passionate nature. She’s sassy, too.”
“How did you meet her?”
“At a club she owned. With her husband.”
Werner is shocked. “She is married?”
“No, no, not anymore. We are both separated.”
“Do you intend to marry this Mimi person?”
Jake grins with his eyes closed. “I intend to fuck this Mimi person.”
“Tell me more, Jake. What does she like?”
“She likes dogs, and spiders. She grows flowers like Jack grows beanstalks. And she loves music, pure music. As long as it’s pure, she says. It doesn’t matter if it’s jazz or rock or country or classical. She has a great ear and perfect pitch. And she dances; the woman can’t stand still; she’s intense that way.” Jake bobs slightly in his chair; looking rather pale, he stands tenuously. “Where’s the bathroom in this joint, Werner? I need to splash some water on my face.” Mobility requires coordination and Jake doesn’t have any; he feels like a Sit and Spin. “No, just get me back to the hotel. I’d be better off in a room where I can’t hurt myself.” Jake smiles weakly at Werner, who tries unsuccessfully to cover up his perpetual grin. “Are you going to throw up, Jake? If you throw up, you’ll feel better.”
“Damn, Werner, and waste that pie? I feel really good, but would prefer to take my shoes off in my own room. Don’t want to be the old man in the club, you know,” Jake says with a nod to his perceived senior status. Werner offers Jake his arm, and without embarrassment, Jake gloms to it like an old woman clings to a lost son. Werner keeps Jake cognizant by talking about music. “Okay, Jake, you’re playing the Bimhuis tomorrow night, right?”
Jake’s gait is slow but steady, and he answers in a strong voice. “And for the next three nights. Can I leave my equipment set up there?”
“Oh yes. Nobody will bother your stuff. You will love it – it’s very secure. I’ll go with you for sound check, will that be good for you?” Jake laughs. “Yes, Werner, that will be good for me. Are we almost home?”
“We’re there, Jake. Can you find your room?” Jake slowly spins around the lobby one full rotation. “No, do you know where my room is?’
“I will take you there and you will remember next time.” Werner is a patient young man, and treats Jake gently, as he would treat a child afraid of the dark.
“Werner, you are a good man and you must be an excellent father. Kiss your baby for me. And here, take this,” says Jake, reaching for his wallet. “Buy your mother something nice.” Werner declines. “Oh no, Jake, no money for tonight,” he says. “It was my pleasure. No tip, please; this was as a friend.” Werner hands Jake a small package. “Here, give this to Peter. I’ll knock at three tomorrow and we’ll go to the Bimhuis.”
“Godspeed, man,” says Jake; safely in the door, he tosses Peter his five grams before dipping his face into a slick marble bathroom sink; nothing like a cold water revival, thinks Jake, feeling centered once again. “Come here, man,” says Peter. “I want to show you a trick; if you want to get a little black gold home, do this.” Peter reaches for a drinking straw from the room service tray. He unpeels the paper cover, then packs the hash into the plastic straw. He melts both ends of the straw with his lighter, creating a tight seal. Peter retrieves an unopened tube of toothpaste from his shaving kit and gently plants the hash into the center of the tube. “See? Simple. The straw displaces the areas formerly taken up by the paste, creating a tube that returns to the appearance of being full.”
Jake is interested. “And nothing much to clean up,” he says.

Dear Mimi,
The items in this package are not a statement regarding your personal hygiene. Ignore the toothpaste – put both tubes in a secret place for now. RE: Belgium chocolate: the Zen truffles will make you crave sex with me - at least that’s what I’m told. You can get these treasures at some fancy stores in the US, but why fly to NYC when I can play middleman and save you the trauma of breathing stale air in a stuffy deathtrap with wings? The shopkeeper insisted I pay extra to get these to you within two days or suffer a decrease in quality, but he says that you do not, I repeat, do not, have to eat them all in one sitting. Strange logic…he also insisted that you not refrigerate these chocolates. Upon my return, I will show you a trick I learned in Amsterdam. We will go to the highest pasture and write music together, chart a love song based on the stars and revisit a little café called the Blue Bird, my favorite smoking coffee shop. Great apple pie there!
Love, Jake

Dear Jake,
Why would I crave sex with you when I can rub a Zen truffle on my inner thigh and immediately reach orgasm? The experience is even more gratifying when I suck on a little Zen Orangette. A ménage a trois, Jake, a Trifecta! You stay right there and send me a package of Zen every week for the rest of my life. You are a romantic warrior at heart – I know for sure. Love songs and star charts and high pastures. Count me in. Toothpaste’s hidden in top right drawer under socks, in case I am attacked by a rabid cow before your return. Until then…
Love, Mimi

Load-in at the Bimhuis is a breeze, thanks to Werner. The staff knows him, loves him, and gives him free rein. Odessa and the guys set up and practice for about two hours, getting in gear for three nights of good gigging. First night, good; second night, better – bigger crowd, more energy. The Bimhuis is a fairly large venue compared to the small clubs Jake’s used to, and the buzzing crowd is at capacity. He emits a low whistle. “Wow, Odessa, are you really that well known over here? I know this crowd’s never heard of me. Look at all these people, happy people getting ready to dig our music.”
“Yeah, Jake, that’s it. It’s all me!” Odessa grins. “Welcome to Amsterdam. The Bimhuis is always at least half packed regardless of who’s here to hear. It’s a jazz town, remember?”
“Yeah, Odessa, but this is amazing.”
“And they’ve never heard anybody take it out quite so far as you do, Jake. Look at the faces out there; I guarantee you that at least a third of these people were here last night and will be back tomorrow. They will definitely know who you are when you come back here. They’ll call you by name on the street, like they do me.” Jake studies his audience and within thirty seconds, makes eye contact with five people, all who acknowledge him with a smile. “It’s really gratifying, getting the props and respect we don’t even get in our hometown,” continues Odessa. “That old adage about jazz being a local scene is bullshit. It’s global, Jake. We’re riding the rainbow across oceans and landing in cultural pots of gold; now, ain’t that great, South’ren boy?”
Jake shakes his head in wonder. “I swear, Odessa, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“And you never will unless you come back.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“Next year, Jake, or later this year if I can pull it together. You’ve made an impression over here. Don’t be surprised if you’re asked back without me. And you better take them up on it, too.”

All is well until load-out on the third night when Jake makes the mistake of talking to the tall blonde woman who leans against the stage and tracks his every move with eagle eyes. “Watch her, Jake,” Werner says as he passes behind him. “She is bad news.” But Jake is flying high on the love of his new tribe. He doesn’t feel her pick his pocket, but knows the timing of it. As he poses for a picture with her, she leans in for a hug, and with one hand on his crotch and another inside his jacket, she lifts Jakes wallet out of its inside secret pocket at the very same time she slips her tongue into his mouth; she’s gone before the blush overtakes Jake’s face. Werner’s hackles are up. “Jake, check your pockets.”
“Why, Werner?”
“You just got ripped off.”
Jake, laughing, says,” No, I just got sexually molested, but ripped off? No way.”
Werner is animated. “Where’s your wallet? Where do you keep it?”
“Shit,” says Jake. “How did she do that?”
Werner is at a dead run and halfway out the door before Jake can level his jaw and check his pocket one more time. He yells to Werner, “Where are you going?”
“I know her!” Werner returns in twenty minutes with Jake’s wallet, but there’s nothing in it except Mimi’s address; identification, money, business cards – all gone. Werner is confused when Jake shrugs and smiles. The loss is temporary and minimal; Jake’s hip to a street scene played out with the same script everywhere. He even packs on some gigs back home, those late night gigs requiring load-out in dark alleys early in the morning when the addicted cats prowl. Jake’s wallet carries nothing of value except Mimi’s address and it’s still there. He has more money, more identification at the hotel. Jake just wants to get back to The American and brush his teeth, get the woman’s scent off his face.

The band says goodbye to Werner at the train station the next afternoon. Werner hugs each of them warmly and cries when he receives Dfl 1000, almost five hundred dollars American. “Even Prince doesn’t tip as well as you do,” Werner says. “And he is a good tipper. Hurry back! I miss you already. Goodbye! Good gigging in Barcelona!” And back at The American, Werner helps another band to their suite. “Prince stayed here right before you,” Werner says. “He just left this morning – he’s a very good tipper.”

It is 346 miles from Amsterdam to Paris, a rail trip that takes about four hours on the Thalys Direct. Spacious, reclining seats in a first-class compartment soothe Jake into the sleep of the dead. Jake dreams of Molly; she’s stalking a skunk in downtown Amsterdam. The skunk waddles into the Blue Bird and Molly follows it inside. A child feeds Molly a treat, but the treat is hash. Molly lies down and turns into a rug. The skunk moves in on Jake and begins to speak, but before Jake can learn skunk language, Odessa yells him out of his dream. “Peter, what the hell are you doing? You can’t smoke that in here!”
“Chill, Odessa, we’re the only ones on this car, babe.”
“We won’t be for long; put it up before you get us all busted!”
“Anybody want a hit first?” Peter grins as Odessa thumps his head like she’s testing for ripeness. But Odessa’s not playing. “Peter, you put that away now or I’ll leave your ass on this train! I’m not kidding. Good drummers are cheap in Barcelona. Christ, man, you about got us all busted last year. If I see you doing anything to jeopardize this tour one more time, I’m serious, you’re gone.”
Peter puts his pocket pipe away. “I’m sorry, Odessa. You’re right, I’m sorry.” Odessa makes a face at Peter and strikes a match. “Anybody got incense?”
“Only the kind that smells like hash,” answers Marc. Odessa can’t help herself; she cracks up and the band joins in. “Smart asses, all of you. Just shut up.” The momentary tension dissipates with the smoke; all is well on the Thalys.

A three-hour layover in Paris gives the band a comfort zone as they make the transfer between Gare du Nord, their terminus from Amsterdam, and Paris Austerlitz, their destination station for Barcelona. Jake and Peter have eight well-packed pieces of luggage between them, but it’s easily distributed to the five band members and survives the transfer without a hitch. Musicians are responsible that way. Fuck the clothes, they can always buy more. But, God forbid a Wah-Wah peddle or a single cable should go missing. Just the mere thought of losing equipment, big or small – size has nothing to do with importance – sends most musicians into the depths of despair for at least three hours and could make a man contemplate suicide if a synthesizer goes missing. “But, that one can’t be replaced. Chick Corea touched it before I bought it…oh, man, that cable’s been with me since the beginning, man…I can’t play shit without my bag of sticks, man; yeah, I can buy more, but they won’t sound the same, I guarantee it.” Mother hens counting biddies aren’t as careful as musicians counting equipment.

The Talgo Night train is filled with night travelers – sexy young feminine night hawks who love musicians. Jake and Peter share a compartment with a shower, a sink, and a private toilet. Marc and Franz are next door, Odessa next to them. They dine in the restaurant car and drink in the bar car and play cards until eleven p.m., eventually hibernating until seven; they don’t quite capture the sleep they lost in Amsterdam, but decrease the deficit before hitting Barcelona. Jake, a night owl by nature, is just beginning to feel alive when a lovely raptor moves in on his perch. “Excuse me,” she says, “I can’t seem to make my way to the bar. Will you order something for me, please?” She flashes Jake a one-hundred-watt smile, a smile that brightly snaps of intelligent smugness and worldly knowledge. Blatantly sexual. Unconsciously sensual. Anima rising. Jake feels it; she captures his spirit quickly, and his lust is begging for a snare. He’s as good as dead. She is beautiful, Jake thinks while appraising the hunter. Petite, long blonde hair, tight body. “I’ll be glad to. What would you like?”
“How about a B & B, heated?”
“Sure,” Jake says casually. “Where can I find you?” What’s your name, little girl? Hello, hard-on. Damn, Jake thinks. She’s gorgeous. “Oh, I’ll stay right here. I’m Lucinda.”
“Jake. Nice to meet you, Lucinda; are you from the States, too?”
“New York. You?”
“Virginia. Are you going to Barcelona?”
Lucinda smiles. “Aren’t we all? I’m checking out the art museums. Working on my Master’s thesis, so this trip’s part of my research. Jake, right? I like that name.”
Good morning little schoolgirl. “So keeping your nose in the books, huh?”
“More like keeping my nose on the street. What are you doing here? No wait, let me guess. You’re a musician.”
Jake is pleased. “How can you tell?”
“You’re wearing all black. You’re too cool for school. Is this your first time to Barcelona?” Lucinda squeezes her arms together and her high perched bosoms push against her tight white halter top. Jake’s south pole is facing due north; he has an almost uncontrollable urge to rub himself on her leg. “Uh huh.” He’s reduced to caveman responses. “It’s my third,” Lucinda replies. “I love B-town. Need a guide?”
“Mmm, now, that’s a thought. Here you go, B & B, heated glass.” Lucinda flashes big blue eyes at her prey as she reaches into her little black purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. I bet you’ll buy me a drink before we day goodnight.”
“Don’t count on it; I’m a student. Where are you staying?”
“La Terrassa.”
“No shit! Me, too – sharing a room with three other students.”
“That sounds like a tough gig.”
“It’s a financial issue. Not my preferred accommodations, but a hungry student must survive.” Lucinda runs her fingers through her hair and moves closer to Jake. “I bet you have a lot of luggage. I know how you musicians travel because I used to date one. No such thing as packing light unless you’re the string or horn man. I bet you play keys.”
Now Jake is impressed. “How could you tell that?”
“Other than the vibe, your hands. Look at your hands, they’re gorgeous. Show me your spread, Jake.” Jake grins. “Not on the first date,” he says. Lucinda picks up his right hand and places it just above her cleavage. “Here, right here, on my chest. Spread ‘em, Cowboy, let’s see what you’re made of. See? Your reach is almost as wide as my shoulders. Do you have a gig tomorrow night?”
Jake’s tongue wants to touch Lucinda’s tonsils, but he plays it cool. This child could be dangerous, he thinks. “No. Night after.”
“Do you have plans for tomorrow?”
Jake shakes his head. “Just acclimation, food, and sleep.”
“Would you like to hang out and see some really cool architecture, go to the museums, grab a bite to eat, have a drink or something?” I’ll take the or something, Jake thinks. “I’m not much of a planner, Lucinda. Maybe, I don’t know.” Jake’s response sets Lucinda back a bit; she’s not used to rejection. “Tell you what,” she says, shifting slightly away from him. “I’ll be in the lobby at eleven sharp. I’ll wait for five minutes, then I’m leaving. If you’re interested in a private tour of the best spots in Barcelona, meet me. If not, it’s no big deal. Gotta run! Thanks for the drink.” Lucinda is ready to move on to another perch. This bird, Jake thinks, is cute, but lacks spontaneity. Jake reaches out and gently takes hold of her arm. “Wait a minute; where will you take me?” Lucinda turns her head and looks at Jake. “Ah, you must show up to find out.”
“Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jake says, suddenly wishing he had said yes.
“No worries. If you’re there, you’re there. If you’re not, you’re not.” And she flies away, just like that. Jake thinks eleven a.m. is a perfect time for a tour.

Dear Mimi,
Paris flyby; I see train stations. Inside of eyelids. Postcards. Spitting Man gargoyle my fave. He’s not a fan of progress. Spits at Eiffel Tower. Let’s go together. We’ll see them up close and personal. No time to explore this trip. Love, Jake

Dear Jake, writing postcard style. Fits mood. Finally found worthy work. Have fallen in love with a Cajun who fills up day, but still too much time to think. Latest and most negative brain drain: married to man who lied. Lied again. Truth finally spurted from his lips like blood from severed artery. Had plan; plan fell through; planned some more. Signed papers; lost financial security. Moved to country, found peace. Then, you. Friendship. Flirtation. Love letters. Reeling here. Thinking too much. No peace. Missing you. What next? Do you know truth? Truth beautifully unique, but ugly same everywhere. Damn you better know truth. Signed, Saint Maniac, Patron of all Gargoyles ps – high tension in small-minded US of A. I walk familiar streets and am carrier of contagious disease, something worse than leprosy. Something embarrassing. Nobody looks me in the eye. Goat herder, they whisper in grocery stores. They spit on me like gargoyles. And you? Having a good time? Good. Good for you. Have a good day. Good bye. Yeah, love. Mimi pps – Cajun is a horse.

Jake and Lucinda make eye contact as they leave the train and speak volumes without saying a word. Lucinda smugly throws her duffel over her shoulder while Jake and the ban distribute multiple bags between them, organizing keys and drums and balancing the load between five people before hopping aboard their reserved mini-bus to Hotel La Terassa. Lucinda beats Jake to the hotel by thirty minutes, but Odessa has the fast track to check-in and Jake is ensconced in his room before Lucinda signs her name on the dotted line. Bye-bye, nubile one, Jake thinks as he returns the smugness to its slightly humbled and envious owner. Age has its benefits, don’t you know? No, you don’t know. Score one for the old guy.
Jake unpacks, quickly cleans up and considers making a donation in the shower drain, but withholds the deposit because he spies a better bank down the road; he walks into the lobby on the stroke of eleven. Lucinda looks absolutely grand in her clothes. Hip to the ninth of Siberia, this girl, this sexy intelligent girl, this young woman who holds Jake’s spirit captive behind the lens of her ice blue eyes. No anima rising in Jake now; no feminine spirit. Only a surge of testosterone that makes Jake feels six feet tall in his socks. His sex drive is at half-mast, a perpetual reminder of his staying power; Jake runs that flag up the pole. He is not thinking about Mimi, no, not at all. If home is where the heart is, then Jake’s heart is on vacation.

Ah, Barcelona! From Frommer’s: “If you took the all-out party power of Parliament’s George Clinton and mixed in equal parts of the more refined tastes of Sting, then shook them up and poured them over ice, you’d get pretty close to the trippy, wild, and refined flavors that make Barcelona such a delicious drink.” B-town is designed for musicians. Forget the bars; forget the museums and the architecture and the food and the beach. It’s the vibe, man. It’s the 1,500 years of tourist and travel industry experience. It’s the international spirit and the language of Catalan and the regional pride and the whole unique gig played out every day on every street. Barcelona is one hip flip city. And Lucinda has her finger on the city’s pulse. Jake is forty-seven years old, but ageless. His body doesn’t hurt much today; he can go all night. Dance? No, Jake doesn’t like to dance, but he will subtly grind you against the wall with the best of the droopy eye-lidded older, but wiser players. Watch him later on; you’ll get the picture. You’ve seen it before if a subtle level of eroticism moves you. The scene is obvious to those who fly beneath the radar, to those who pace themselves with Jake, to those who breathe like turtles. Lucinda will reintroduce Jake to an old companion, the afternoon fast-paced heat race, and Jake will, in turn, introduce Lucinda to the more sensual side of sex, to late night restraint, to the reserve tank. Lucinda understands the concept although she has never fully experienced that brand of erotic pleasure. But, that is before Jake. After Midnight, she will learn what making love looks like, and she will be terrified.

Lucinda and Jake go on a walking cruise through Barcelona, spend hours in the Ciutat Vella, traverse El Raval and Barri Gotic, and gawk at the best of modern art in the Museu d’Art Contemporani de Barcelona. They spend a few short minutes in the Centre de Cultura for history, then grab a quick lunch and an even quicker photo opp at Catedral de Barcelona by mid-afternoon; finally, a postcard purchasing frenzy at Museu Picasso before they trace each other’s scent back to Hotel Terrassa, before culminating the adventure with intense sexual gratification, quick release, and a long nap. Jake’s hand intertwines in Lucinda’s long hair; her head is on his belly, hair stuck to his juice. But, that was playtime, daytime, familiar territory to Lucinda. Her education begins at Midnight. Lucinda has never known a man to look her in the eye while climaxing, but Jake does. Jake growls while he looks her in the eye, while he peaks front and center, withholding nothing. Jake is present; Lucinda is afraid at first, then accepts Jake’s primal twist and shout as an anthropological phenomenon, as part of her artistic research, accepting the research component without fully acknowledging the intensity of Jake’s hunger. She is embarrassed by his nakedness. Lucinda experiences – but does not embrace – the difference between fucking a boy and making love with a man. It is one of the most valuable lessons of her life, a lesson that doesn’t require a Master’s degree, but instead requires recognition and release, raw release; she recognizes passion, but Jake’s style is unrelated to her definition of love. Lucinda is overwhelmed and confuses, from this moment on and for the rest of her life, good sex and true love, never trusting her instincts in combining the two Universal elements. She is always surprised, always off her game, afraid of the fast ball. She’s a minor league bench player; too bad for Lucinda.
Jake, of course, recognizes nothing and attributes Lucinda’s rookie status to pro league nerves. Lucinda blames her lack of sexual release on absinthe, too much absinthe, she says, and the late hour, too late for a catch and release. There’s always an excuse for Lucinda’s lack of power hitting. Unfortunately, this never changes. Wise women all over the world may lament her lack of sexual fulfillment, but recognize and love Jake for looking a woman in the eye, dead on in the eye. It isn’t Lucinda who is chosen to represent all women on the planet who wish for a man to look at them, to give the snapshot meaning, to feed the spirit back into the soul, to stoke the home fire rather than to vainly attempt ignition of a vacation spark robbed of oxygen after the first and only deeply satisfying breath.

Jake rolls out of bed and into the shared living space to find Peter staring at him, grinning. “Your company gone, man?”
“Yeah, thank God.”
“Really? Send her my way, she’s my kind of groupie.”
Jake shakes his head. “Hands off, man, she’s not a groupie. She’s a student.” Jake walks to the kitchen and makes a cup of Earl Gray with a splash of cream. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten-thirty; for the record, new guy, all students are groupies.” Jake ignores Peter’s attempt at banter. “I’m supposed to meet her in the lobby at eleven. She’s taking me to some church somewhere; something I have to see, she says.”
“La Sagrada Familia?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Jake takes a sip of his delicious elixir and pauses. “I think I might blow her off.”
No, man. You will flip out! It’s the coolest thing ever. The architecture will blow your mind, dude. It’s Gaudi’s finest work, although he died before it was completed. The structure looks like molten lava, like something out of Doctor Seuss’s The Grinch, maybe where The Grinch would live, only hipper. I’ve always wanted to play there. That’s all I can say; you have to see it to believe it. Get a move on, man, you don’t want to miss it.”

Dear Mimi,
Visited museums yesterday. Picasso museum the best. Met interesting people, including art student who gives good tours. Went to La Sagrada Familia this morning and picked up this postcard. Check out the towers. From down looking up it’s like being in the desert surrounded by world’s tallest palm trees. Gaudi’s finest work. First gig tonight at Jamboree. Home soon. Hope you are well. Give my love to Molly. XO Jake

Dear Jake,
Visited the downtown art galleries last night. Stepped purposely on the cracks in the sidewalk to cut myself some slack, not to break my mother’s back. Changing the rhyme from guilt-ridden to guilt-free. You’re not a southern girl, so you may not dig. Hope you are well, too. World’s Largest Sand Castle? Will visit in my dreams and sing inside the cavern. In my dream ocean meets dry land. I melt at the point of contact and disappear into the steps of the tower, becoming part of Gaudi’s eternal vision. Molly is doing just fine without your love. She has Ben. Go XO yourself. Mimi

Mimi feels the heat from Jake’s latest postcard, feels the heat that radiates from another woman’s fingerprints. She traces Lucinda’s invisible touch with the accuracy of a blind woman reading Braille. It takes Mimi less than a minute to apply emotional SPF Thirty and block out what could be, if she isn’t careful, severe heartburn. Jake owes me nothing, Mimi says out loud. Mimi sits in her hammock, avoids the sun, and waits patiently for a cooling cloud cover to protect her from bursting into hot tears. Jake owes Mimi nothing.

The Jamboree is a small, smart venue with a cave-like atmosphere and a history of hosting some of the world’s top performers. The vibe of earlier musical top cats dangles invisibly from ancient interior cobwebs. Of all the clubs to date, the Jamboree feeds Jake’s identity, pours Jake a straight shot of sacred tonic, an emotional infusion that goes straight to his heart. Jake silently acknowledges the players who have performed before him. This is the spirit of a good musician, always mindful of the great ones who opened the door before he was out of diapers.
Odessa and the band set up one time in Barcelona, one time for a week’s gig at Jamboree Jazz Club, the A ticket for a musician hauling heavy equipment. The Jamboree pays good money and is Mecca for most musicians. Jake is thankful from the moment his perfect hands touch the keys on the first night until after the final song is played at the end of the week-long gig. Lucinda? Lucinda who? “Hey, Jake.”
“How’s it going, Lucinda?” Jake can’t help but notice her beauty, but her power is gone. “We have to change hotels,” she says. “We’re moving to the Pension Vitorio tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah?” Jake concentrates on the spiraling cable in his hand, making seven perfect and equal loops before packing it in the bottom of a well-worn black canvas bag.
“Yeah, bummer, but I was thinking I could stay with you until you leave.”
“That’s not a good idea, Lucinda.”
“Why not?”
“Because Peter and I share a room.”
Lucinda shrugs. “Oh, well, just a thought. It’s okay. I’ll still be close enough to you. I really enjoyed your show last night.”
“Thanks.” Wrap it up, Jake thinks.
“Where did you go after? I waited around thinking we would get together.”
“The band went to the London Bar for a drink, grabbed some food, and headed back to the hotel.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to join you?”
Jake sighs and turns to Lucinda; he sees a little girl. “Look, Lucinda, I’m really tired. These gigs are kicking my ass. We have rehearsal this afternoon with Odessa, new songs to learn for tonight. I’m really busy.”
“Can I come to rehearsal with you? Then maybe we can get something to eat later, or get together, you know, if you want to.”
Jake kindly looks at her. “I don’t think so, Lucinda. Look, you’re a baby doll, but I’m really busy. I’m sorry, but I need to be done with this.”
Lucinda’s true naiveté is hard to watch; Jake manages one more sympathetic smile before turning his attention back to his tear-down. “Yeah, thanks old man,” she says. “Go home to your boring life and rock on your boring porch or whatever you bumpkins do in Virginia. I like guys who can dance anyway. What the hell. You aren’t contagious, are you?”
Jake wrinkles his nose. “That’s distasteful, Lucinda.”
“Look, Jake, we slept together twice. We had unprotected sex, and I’m never going to see you again in about two minutes. Do you know what I mean?”
“No gifts that keep on giving, Lucinda.”
“Good. Me either, just so you know. You got lucky, Jake. You’re old enough to know better; be more careful next time.”
“There won’t be a next time, Lucinda.” Jake picks up his bag and nods goodbye.
Lucinda bitterly laughs. “Sure there will be, Jake. There’s always a next time for men like you. Wait a minute, I’m not through.” Jake has a momentary flashback, and subconsciously looks for a nurse’s station. “I am, Lucinda,” he says. “Be careful out there; you’re a very special young woman.”
“And you’re just another special musician, Jake, special in your own mind. You don’t even know my last name.”
“No, I don’t. But let’s leave it like that. Take care.”
Lucinda has one more request. “Hey, your roommate Peter…he’s the drummer, right? Will you introduce me?”
“Goodbye, Lucinda.”
And it’s over. The tour is over. Jake wins. Jake wins. Jake wins. The big bird brings the brother home.

Dear Mimi, I will be at your house before you get this postcard. I am happy and tired and full of great stories, all of which I will gladly share with you. Know this: your doorstep is my destination. Seeking a compassionate and understanding welcome home. I will look into your soulful eyes and find comfort in your open heart.
Love, Jake