The car we drove was an old, beat up Mercedes, not exactly the car you’d expect. It was comfortable and had good gas mileage, though, so it was perfect.
We stopped by a bookstore, our first chance to try John’s disguise. We slipped in unrecognized. John, Fred, and I went wild looking for books. There was such a variety there. We talked and laughed until the owner began to stare at John, who became paranoid very quickly. We bought our selections and left hastily, laughing at John’s fake Texas drawl the whole way.
Once we were back in the car, John sighed. "That’s why I went into seclusion," he said wearily. He went on to say that his life had been ironic; he’d craved fame, then ran from it when it arrived. I knew what he meant, and told him my history.
After awhile, I noticed Fred had been very quiet. Listening carefully, but dead silent. "Fred, what do you do?" I asked.
"Nothing to make me famous," he replied, smiling. "I’m a writer too. I write music reviews for magazines. Well, I did. Now I’ve got a full time job at the Dakota. I just write journals lately."
I was surprised. I never would’ve guessed he was a writer. Then again, I hadn’t paid him much attention. "Are you? You good?"
"Not according to him," John piped up from the backseat. (I was sitting up front with Fred, and John was sprawled out in the back.)
Fred was turning a bit red. I had to laugh. There was John, putting in his two cents’ worth. He seemed to have a knack for that. I put my two cents’ worth in by saying teasingly, "Seems the would-be writer is embarrassed by his own talent, or is it lack of?"
He now looked red as a beet, or a beetroot as the English say. (My mother was forever using British words, such as their expressions and slang.) "No, I’m good enough," was all he would say. I could identify with that; when people would compliment me on my writing, I’d try to be as modest as I could. Well, in the past I would have. Now I threw modesty to the wind and admitted, "Yes, I’m very good. Better than most." Funny, people try to get you to admit you have talent, and when you do, they think you’re on a *fucked up ego trip.* (The words of the boys at school, not mine. I was surprised they even knew the meaning of the word "ego.")
We drove to the nearest grocery. I kept shooting looks at John, who was shooting nervous looks at the store. I could almost taste his paranoia. And I could understand why, but I did think he was blowing it out of proportion. Did he think some loony was going to simply walk up to him in the middle of the street and kill him? Or that he’d be plagued by fans forever if he went shopping? Visions of locusts suddenly danced in my head. Maybe he should’ve been a tabloid journalist, not a musician. Maybe I should be a tabloid journalist instead of a writer of fiction. "Uh, Fred," John said, an edge on his voice, "I think I’ll stay here in the car."
Fred nodded. "Okay. I’ll be right back." He turned to me, and I suddenly realized how deep brown and soulful his eyes were. "And you? Are you going to come?"
I wasn’t sure whether to stay or go. The windows of the car were tinted, so no one could easily see inside. On the other hand, John looked so jumpy that I didn’t want to leave him alone. Finally I decided John was a big boy and could take care of himself (or so I hoped), and said, "Yeah, I’ll come with you."
Fred and I walked down the aisles of the grocery store, hunting (without much success) for our necessities. As our search progressed, we talked animatedly about all sorts of things. This was the most animated I’d seen Fred in the entire, oh, two hours I’d known him. I’d gotten the impression he was quite shy. I learned that he wasn’t shy, he simply didn’t use up words on everything.
After we’d been in the store ten minutes, I sensed a presence behind me. I tried to ignore it, but after awhile it became impossible to ignore it. "Fred," I said quietly. "Is there someone following us?"
Fred, who was trying to figure out if the sign on the tea was 50 dollars or 50 cents (all the sign said was 50, and the tea was not marked), jerked his head up. "Huh? Are we being followed?"
I was feeling as paranoid as John must have been. "Yeah. Is there anyone lurking around?" I suddenly remembered this was New York, and that there was always a character *lurking around.* "I mean, anyone behind me?"
"Don’t give me away," a voice hissed. Fred and I nearly had coronaries, but then we calmed down and saw John, sunglasses perched on his nose, his fake moustache (which made him look even more like a guru . . . or a tramp, depending on your viewpoint) drooping and revealing his real facial hair.
"John, you’re giving yourself away," I whispered back. "What are you doing?"
"I was getting stared at," he whispered, looking embarrassed. His eyes were darting wildly. Amazing that he didn’t notice the five people staring at him that very moment. "I decided to get away from it."
"Why don’t you go back to the car," Fred suggested quietly. "Inconspicuously."
John was so nervous he was nearly jumping around the aisle. He looked like a jack in the box on speed, jiggling up and down. "No. They’ll see me if I do."
"Ahem!" We looked up to see a tall, imposing man with dark hair glaring down his nose at us. I figured he was the manager of the store. He looked very stern and angry, but almost smirking in a way. "Are you in need of assistance?"
He thinks we’re planning to shoplift, I realized. Exchanging a look with John, I said, "No, we aren’t, thanks."
"Look at the price on this tea!" John remarked a little too loudly, feigning shock. "Fifty dollars for a box of teabags?"
"Sir, the price on that is fifty cents," Mister Meddling Manager informed him curtly. He glanced around almost nervously. Odd for the manager of a store. "And I do trust you’ll pay for it."
My temper was rising, and so was John’s, I could tell. "No, actually, we thought we’d have you bill us," I spoke up, rather snidely.
Fred, jumping in to do damage control, said quickly, "We’re doing our weekly shopping. We do intend to pay for everything."
"Right," John agreed. I saw the mischief in his eyes, and knew he’d already pocketed something. Probably a pack of chewing gum or cigarettes.
"I should certainly hope so," the manager said in a haughty tone.
"Otherwise you will cause your fellow shoppers to pay even more."
"We know how the economy works," John snapped. "Excuse us." He took Fred and me by our arms and led us, nearly running, to another aisle. "Fuckin’ suit," he mumbled, his brown eyes darting yet again.
"Who does he think he is?" I added, just as angry. "Ordering us around."
Fred looked both confused and amused. (He also looked a bit winded from running six aisles over. That does that to ya.) "Well, so much for tea," he remarked, grinning.
John rolled his eyes impatiently. "Nice one, Fred. Go back and get the damn tea. He probably didn’t even look at you." Considering Fred’s fairly clean cut look, the manager most likely wouldn’t have paid him much attention. I have always been singled out as a potential troublemaker. (It could have to do with the fact that I am . . .) As I came to find out later, Fred was not the clean cut man he appeared to be.
But Fred looked nervous. "All right," he said hesitantly. "Where will you be?"
"Hiding in storage," I replied, snorting. "Good luck buying the valuable fifty cent tea."
He nodded and embarked on his quest. (Sad when a person has to make a quest out of buying tea. So much for capitalism.) John and I loitered around Aisle twelve, pretending to be ordinary citizens shopping for important products. Soon I caught sight of the manager. He was sending us a penetrating glare.
"We need a jar of peanut butter!" I exclaimed, grabbing one and thrusting it at John. He looked taken aback, but then he caught on and, feigning his Texas drawl, said, "No we don’t. We need three!" hastily taking two more jars. "This will go well with our, uh, supply."
The manager was staring at us, as were the other shoppers. I thought fast and grabbed for the nearest thing on the shelf. "Here! Take this! It’ll help us."
John looked absolutely dumbfounded. It was then that I realized I’d grabbed a package of diapers. I nearly collapsed with laughter, but if I did that the manager would probably have us arrested. "Just take it," I added. "You’ll see what I mean."
"Oh, now, dear. I’m not that old," John gently chided. "And I’m not going to get harassed by anyone at the home. Not even the dirty old men." By now everyone was staring at us in disbelief. Half the people were snickering, the other half were appalled.
I appalled them further by saying, "Remember what happened last time? You don’t want to get rear ended again."
A hand grabbed my arm. I drew in a breath, prepared to fight, but I saw it was Fred. "Come on," he whispered. "Let’s go." He had a basket full of groceries, bless him. "Let’s go get checked out." The three of us ran to the checkout aisles and hurriedly paid for the stuff. Then we bolted for the exit, got in the Mercedes, and Fred sped off.
Once we were safely out of eyeshot (interesting word), we all dissolved in laughter. "I can’t believe you two!" Fred howled, shaking his head. "Diapers?"
"It was her doing," John cackled. "But I did get an item or two." He produced a pack of chewing gum, a pack of cigarettes, and a bag of marijuana leaves.
Call me a prude, but I was startled. I’d seen people with marijuana before (my parents frequently smoked it), but what shocked me was how easily and quietly he’d obtained it. Seeing the look on my face, John smiled secretively. "Guess," was all he said.
Suddenly I realized: the manager. He must have been a friend or supplier
of John’s. I recalled his taut jaw, the look on his face, the way his eyes
darted. "Yeah, fucking suit who generously endows you," I said dryly. I
was learning that you have to look beyond the surface of things, study
everything carefully, before drawing conclusions. That was a good lesson
for me, but it wasn’t the only thing I’d learn in my time with John. I
still had much to learn.
C.J. © 2001