Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 10: Mr. Tambourine Man

10 
Mr. Tambourine Man

===========DANNY==========

As the late afternoon waned to early evening, with the sun dropping and changing the angle and color of light broadcasted into my room, Mary and I spun through at least a quarter of my entire record collection and talked. Though I would put our ongoing conversation on hold during the important instrumentals or lyrics. Not to be rude or anything, just my music was an extension of me. Particularly during Bob Dylan's "Mr. Tambourine Man."

Mary and I could talk about anything and everything. And we did. Music, pseudo-intellectual points about society, ancient aliens, childhood memories, and stories about people from our different high schools that, when mentioned, couldn't be placed to a face, but were talked about anyways. Mary did, though, have this unmatched talent of cutting me off. Like hands building one on top of the other in a team huddle, so did our conversations. Important thoughts, opinions, and questions had to be de-layered and traced back. More often than not, the once so important point got lost completely.

And to think the night before I thought she was a mute.

At times when Mary was speaking, I would be so mesmerized by the motion of her mouth, how certain words blossomed on her lips, that all I could think about was our kiss in The Alley. Screw me, right?

I had probably plotted a hundred different ways Mary and I would kiss again. Something like, I would tell her she had an eyelash on her face then go in for it. But I thought better of it. It was probably stupid, really.

Mom even came in at one point and offered us reheated veggie chili. Mary claimed that it was the "best thing" she'd ever tasted. Personally, I believe Mary was just trying to kiss ass to Mom. And by the way, how the heck did Mom even know who Biggie Smalls was?

Before we knew it, it was dark out and already a quarter past nine. And right when Peter, Paul, or Mary started plucking the guitar on "500 Miles" from their (Ten) Years Together album, Mary (the one sitting in my bedroom) insisted she had to get going. I didn't want her to leave, not yet; there were so many important lyrics on that record.

If you miss the train I am on / You will know that I am gone.

While on the drive to Mary's house as my car––The Stang––crawled through the back streets of Danae's Bay, my hands could barely find the strength to hold onto the steering wheel. Having thrown myself back against the seat, my fingers slid and clutched at the leather of the wheel for dear life as we died of laughter.

"Tha––Tha––" I stammered, fighting the folding-in of my entire body as I gasped for air. "That's so mean but so horribly true! She's totally a dare!"

Unapologetically, we were laughing our heads off about a girl I went to high school with, who, according to her social media, was hanging out with the New Jersey Devils. Although in Mary's opinion, was more likely the team's dare at last bar call.

For a second, before the laugh attacked again, as I gasped in embarrassingly high-pitched bursts, I blinked the tears out of my eyes and looked over at Mary—to you know, make sure she was actually laughing too. And sure enough, she was gasping in silent heaves. Her face pink and brighter than the concealer under her eyes. And as her mouth stretched wide, I noticed her crooked bottom teeth.

Through a deep exhale I managed, "I'll grab your bike for you."

When I flipped the headlights off, the blackness of the night quickly refilled the space where the light drove it out. And yet again, as I compressed the brake for the stop sign at Fisherman's Alley and Seadrift Drop, Mary told me to wait. She scooted out of my car, ran right down Seadrift through the streetlight, and disappeared out of sight. All I could hear was the flip and flop of her feet echoing through the night that had otherwise remained courteously quiet for the choir of crickets.