Three Mile Island

My name is Mary Anderson, I’m twenty-eight years old, and I am addicted to music, coffee, reading, anything British, Steve McQueen movies and collecting turtles. I curse like a drunken sailor when I get angry and I am the crabbiest person in the world if you wake me up before ten on my days off. Two-thirds of my wardrobe has been purchased at garage sales, music stores and secondhand stores. I also believe my cat is possessed.

I moved to Minneapolis seven years ago now, right after Dad died, and fortunately got a job at Hennepin County Medical Center right away. I work in the Emergency Department doing registration and admitting, dictation, phones, in short, anything the RN’s or doctors need me to do. That’s where I met Bernie. He does the same work that I do, only he has more patience for the bullshit that the doctors dish out sometimes.

Anyway, he came across me a few days after I had started there, kicked back in the lounge and listening to my MP3 player over lunch. He got a magazine and sat down to read and I in turn ignored him and continued listening to my music. Later that day, he asked me what I was listening to and I told him Led Zeppelin. I swear he literally hopped up and down with glee. I learned right then, in a very vocal and disgusted way, that the only music our other coworkers listened to was country, rap and bubblegum pop artists like Britney Spears. We had a nice discussion about Led Zeppelin and music in general. We discovered that we had many of the same tastes in common: Stevie Ray Vaughan, Eric Clapton, solo or in any of the groups he was in, early blues pioneers such as Robert Johnson, Howlin’ Wolf, and Muddy Waters, other bands and artists like Queen and David Bowie and Pink Floyd, to name but a few. It all snowballed from there and we became friends, best friends.

And we’ve been inseparable ever since. As a matter of fact, five years ago he helped me find the lovely apartment that I have in the Eliot Park neighborhood, just six blocks from HCMC. His then boyfriend was a realtor and he got me the hook up. He and Bernie aren’t together anymore, but I still have the real estate equivalent of a memento from their love affair. He hates when I tease him with it.

We’ve picked up a few people over the years and have formed a weird little family of sorts that does things together as often as work schedules and life in general allows. There’s about a dozen or so of us that hang out at least a couple times a month. We fit together nicely, the lot of us, with our bizarre, sometimes ghoulish senses of humor, eclectic tastes in interests and people and our rabid love of the Minnesota Twins.

There is a main nucleus of the group, in number between three and six, that go out to a ballgame when the Twins are playing at the Dome, or go searching for the newest bands and places around the metro region. Therefore, it isn’t uncommon of a Friday night to find us at one of the many bars and clubs that the Minneapolis-St. Paul area is blessed with. Our group is usually made up of Bernie and his current boyfriend Kyle, Stacey, who works with Bernie and I at HCMC, Stacey’s boyfriend Mike, Mike’s cousin Natasha, and myself.

Natasha works at the Star Tribune and has the dirt on all the newest upcoming bands and concerts and shows, so we depend on her to let us know when there is something worth taking a look at. She has, bless her heart, a taste in music compatible with the rest of us and she hasn’t steered us wrong once. As a result, we frequently end up seeing the up and coming bands and musicians. As a side effect, we’re recognized at most of the clubs, so we usually get in even if there’s a long line waiting to get in.

Tonight, thank God, is Saturday and we are going to a bar called 707 to see a band with a particularly interesting name – Three Mile Island. Natasha says they are a bluesy sort of rock with a punk twist. Sounds perfect, and the name is an attention-getter for me. I have a morbid fascination with anything nuclear - The Manhattan Project, Chernobyl, nuclear missiles, submarines, whatever. J. Robert Oppenheimer is the one person I’d most like to travel back in time to meet.

So I found myself at home at a few minutes before 8:30, putting the finishing touches on for what would hopefully be a great night out. I had on my favorite pair of faded Levis, my black push-up bra, my lucky red ladybug tank top and my Chucks. I keep my hair down in loose waves around my shoulders, since it’s always scraped back in a ponytail when I’m at work and needs a break once in a while. I peered in the mirror one last time and swiped powder over the freckles on my nose to no avail. Disgusted, I threw the brush down and turned to get the opinion of my roommate.

“What do you think, cat?” I asked my mountain lion-sized feline, aptly named Diablo.

He looked over his rump at me with his yellow eyes just slits against his black fur and said, “Meh.” Ah, Diablo knows what I want to hear. He always looks like he wants to kill me and eat me until I open a tin of cat food, that is. Then he’s my dearest, furriest friend.

I walked down the hall to the kitchen, grabbed my purse and made sure my cell phone, keys, smokes and cash were inside. Bernie would be there any minute to pick me up. We draw straws for each weekend to see who had to be designated driver or spring for cab fare. He was the lucky one this time.

Just as I left the apartment and locked my door, my phone sounded the tone for a text message. I looked at it as I was walking down the hall, and it was Bernie – ‘shake a leg, wench,’ it read. I didn’t bother replying, since I was already in the elevator on my way down.

When I got downstairs and outside, I saw Bernie hanging out of the window of a cab. Kyle was peeking around him and the two of them were watching for me. Bernie swung open the door for me and slid over the cracked vinyl seat to make room.

“We’re gonna have fun tonight, honey,” he said cheerfully. Honestly, nothing could bother Bernie, except for flat beer or bad karaoke singers. He was the most upbeat person I knew, and I loved him for it. It made going out with him a blast.

“You bet we are,” I laughed. He was bouncing up and down in excitement on the seat, causing the cab driver to give him a dirty look and mutter under his breath in a foreign language I didn’t quite recognize.

We were dropped off in front of the club, and after we paid the cover charge, we found Natasha and Mike inside waiting for us. Stacey was at home with the flu, Mike said, so he was flying solo that night. Privately, I thought Stacey was a bit of a hypochondriac, but that comes from working at a hospital, I think. It’s called medical students’ disease.

There were many people at 707 tonight, the majority of which were crammed around the bar trying to get drinks. We had learned right away that at any club or bar, it was best to get a table first and then send just one of us to the bar with our orders. Usually if you tipped well enough, or had semi-decent wait staff, they’d bring the drinks over on a tray and spare the person from trying to carry six bottles of beer or what-have-you across the room.

We made a beeline for a miraculously empty table right in front, a little to the right of center stage, and Mike volunteered to get the first round. The band was supposed to start playing at 9:30, and it was just now gone past the hour. The stage was set up already, with amplifiers, microphone, drum kit and everything else the band needed to perform that night. From where we were sitting, I could hear the muted sounds of male voices and the odd guitar string being plucked in the back behind the stage.

Mike came back with a cute brunette waitress in tow, beverages neatly balanced on her tray. The lucky bastard never has to put forth too much effort, since he looks like a fallen angel. The rest of us have to settle for bribing the staff or showing a little cleavage. Unfair.

We all were laughing and having a great time already as Mike endured the usual ribbing over being a pretty boy and a firefighter to boot. Bernie had a funny story about the nurse who asked the one-armed patient if he was right or left-handed, and Natasha had a few great dirty jokes to tell, which we cackled obediently over. If she doesn’t pick up jokes from the reporters at work, Bernie and I get them from the police officers and firefighters that make regular appearances in the ER.

The house lights were dimmed then and we perked up in anticipation. There was a great vibe running through the room – one of anticipation and excitement – and it was easy to pick up on that and rebroadcast it from person to person. I loved that feeling.

Just then, as a group, the four members of the band came out on stage. There was a drummer, a bass player, a lead singer and a lead guitarist – the classic rock quartet. They took up their positions on stage and I was gratified to see that the lead guitarist was standing right in front of our table. He was already running his fingers up and down the neck of his vintage sunburst Telecaster, almost caressingly. We would get a good show – I could feel it in my bones.

The singer introduced himself and his band. He and the drummer must have been brothers, since they had the same last name of Miller and same general appearance. The bass player, Dutch, looked like he was either high or really laid back, but as long as he could fingerpick that Rickenbacker, he would be just fine. He sat down on the edge of the stage and started talking to a table of three scantily dressed women on that side of the stage. I rolled my eyes and shook my head. Men were the same the world over.

From our vantage spot, I was able to observe the lead guitar player, named Jack Carter. He had longish, dark messy hair that fell over his eyes, pale skin, had a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, and was wearing a tight black t-shirt and jeans – in short, he looked like the kind of person my sainted mother had always told me to ignore or run away from, if possible. So naturally, I was fascinated by him. I couldn’t really get a good look at his face, since his hair was falling in it, but then he tipped his head back to scan the crowd and casually pushed his hair back behind one ear.

As he surveyed the room, I felt a tugging in my stomach that had nothing to do with hunger or nausea. Oh, Lord, was he attractive. His eyes were a medium brown color that looked like they were poured out of a bottle of Jack Daniels and he had a stubborn, sensual looking mouth. The guy probably was a great kisser. Other than that, I think maybe part of the draw he held for me could have been simply from the fact that he was a guitar player. I’m not a groupie or anything, but what girl doesn’t have fantasies about guys like Jimmy Page?

I have a thing for hands too, a fetish Bernie calls it, and this Jack Carter had beautiful, masculine hands with long, well-shaped fingers. He must have caught me staring at him like he was dessert, because he caught my gaze, smiled lazily, and winked at me. He actually winked at me and I could feel my face flush as red as my tank top.

To occupy my mind with things other than the potentially talented fingers of the incredibly sexy guitar player, I looked around the room. That was rather unfortunate, since I happened to see my ex-boyfriend Eric in the company of one of the nurses that works in the Pediatric Intensive Care. Nothing turns pleasurable feelings to ashes like seeing an ex-boyfriend for the first time since a breakup.

One beautiful, sunny day four months ago, I had gotten off of work early and came home with lunch for us both. What a nasty surprise he had in store for me when I unlocked and opened the door. I found my darling boyfriend and his too-skinny, horse-faced, unnaturally blond nurse together on my couch having a good old time. After kicking the whore out of my apartment, I told him to get his shit together and get out, which he did with some alacrity. He must have sensed that I had fond thoughts of lighting his possessions on fire and throwing them off of the I35-W Bridge into the Mississippi River

It took a couple of months and many episodes of crying on Bernie’s shoulder, but I got over it, over him. I had dated occasionally, but nothing had seemed to click for me. Unfortunately, nothing really prepares a person for that sudden shock of seeing your ex with your replacement.

“Bernie,” I hissed. He was busy making eyes at Kyle, so I slapped his hand to get his attention.

“What did you do that for?” he complained.

“Look behind Mike at the third table from us,” I directed. I was not disappointed by the look of horror that came over his face.

“Why, that little slut.” That was another reason I loved Bernie. He knew just what to say in any given situation.

Bernie squeezed my hand where it lay limply on the table and said, “Just ignore them. Take the guitar player home with you tonight and you’ll forget all about them,” he advised sagely.

I snorted at his outrageousness but felt my spine relax nonetheless. He was right, as usual. I just needed to ignore them. It still hurt, what Eric had done to me, but the band was about to start playing and I determinedly concentrated on them. The drummer was tapping out a beat on the rim of his snare drum and they launched into their first song.

It was good – they were good, no doubt about it. The music was just as Natasha had said, pure rock with the seductive slow time signature of blues music and some blistering riffs thrown in at just the right times. The drums were like cannons, so loud they hurt our ears, and the bass lines were complex but easy to hook into and catch on the underbelly rhythm of the music.

The lead singer had a dark baritone voice that could range up and down the register from the normal speaking voice he had introduced the band with. He alternated between sounding like sandpaper and velvet to abrasive and soothing. It was an extremely fascinating vocal style and very effective.

But it was Jack that held my attention. He was talented, he and those fingers of his. He worked every nuance out of the music, every vibration from every note was released just so from those hands. I hadn’t ever personally seen a better live performance from a guitar player before in my life. He was simply mind blowing. I kept my eyes glued to him for the entirety of the four songs they played and I could feel myself melting with the music, just like candle wax. That could’ve been the alcohol, but I had only had two beers so far, so I knew what was affecting me. Damn those guitar players.

It was almost a shock to have the fourth song come to its conclusion – I was that involved in it. The audience was whistling and clapping enthusiastically and I realized that I hadn’t even heard them. I kind of shook my head and blinked to clear my head, then heard Natasha asking me if I wanted another drink. From the amusement in her voice, and the smirks on the faces of the others, I knew that she had asked me more than once.

“Yes, drink. Please.” My voice was breathless, something that irritated me in others, but not anything I could control at that moment. To try to regain my composure, I toyed with the napkin that had been under my last beer, clumsily making a paper boat out of it. By the time I finished with my mediocre origami and peeked up again, the stage was emptied and more drinks were headed our way, courtesy of Natasha.

“Thanks, Tasha,” I said and I gratefully tipped the beer back and took a long drink. My mouth was dry for some reason and the dark brown ale helped quench my thirst. Naturally, the beer I was drinking was brewed by the James Page Brewing Company, out of Stevens Point, Wisconsin. No relation to him, of course.

The others were enjoying the music almost as much as I was… at least that was what it seemed like. Of course I knew better. We all came to the consensus that we would be watching for this band and seeing them perform as often as we could. I couldn’t ignore the dark honey feeling of pleasure that pooled in my stomach at the thought of seeing Jack Carter work his Fender again. There was something so intimate about the way he was doing it, and I had to admit to myself that I was turned on by him and his music. I had completely forgotten about Eric.

Their twenty-minute break must have been almost over; the four of them walked back up on stage and took up their instruments again. I sternly told myself that it was just music, that he was just a musician, same as any other we had seen, but my traitorous innards were telling me otherwise. Stupid innards. They always let me down when I depend on them.

The band did another set of songs and I was able to tear my eyes off of Jack and his hands for sometimes up to twenty seconds at a time. I spent that time studying the other members of the band and saw that they were really playing off of the reaction of the crowd, and enjoying it as much as the audience. Everyone there was loose and rolling with the good times and great music. I don’t think anyone could even get snaky with that kind of feeling in the club.

The set flew by, and before I knew it, the last chord had been played, the last note sung and dying away. I looked up, just out of habit, at the neon Leinenkugel clock on the wall and was shocked to see it was already 11:30. Was it really that late? I actually pulled out my cell phone to verify the time. Yep, 11:30.

Kyle elbowed me and let me know that it was my turn to get the next round, so I dutifully pulled out my cash and made my way to the bar. I stood patiently for five minutes before getting annoyed and tugging down my tank top to show off the girls a little better. It was a female bartender, but it never hurts to try, right?

Well, this time it didn’t work. I was seriously considering going back to the table to drag Mike up with me when I felt someone stumble up against my back. Hurriedly I stepped forward and turned to see whom I was going to have to slap, only to see Jack Carter standing there, looking almost sheepishly at me.

He said apologetically, “Sorry. Someone bumped into me.”

I must have looked dazed or something, because he got a worried look on his face and asked, “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He scanned my body briefly, making my knees turn to jelly when his gaze rested for a beat longer than good manners dictated on my exposed skin, then flicked back up to look me in the eye.

“No. No, you didn’t hurt me. I was surprised, that’s all.” Inwardly, I cringed. Three years of college, and all I could come up with was “I was surprised”? For Pete’s sake.

I tried to calm myself and say something witty, clever – something that would make him laugh and be amazed at how intelligent I was.

“You were really good,” I blurted out. “Your hands, how you use them.”

I was pretty sure I muttered a bad word under my breath right then, but he didn’t seem to notice. He smiled quite nicely and said, “Thanks. You were watching my hands almost the whole time.”

Embarrassed, I rubbed the back of my neck and looked down at the floor. “Yeah, sorry. I guess I was.”

“I’m Jack, by the way. I know Danny introduced us on stage and all that, but I’ll feel weird until I do it myself, so this is me introducing myself.” He extended one of those pale, beautiful hands and I had to mentally brace myself before accepting the handshake. Nonetheless, a little shiver ghosted down my spine when his long fingers enclosed mine. They were cool, a little dry and rough, strong and callused.

I managed to remember how to introduce myself, and did so without too much of a noticeable pause, I hope. “Mary. Nice to meet you, Jack. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around here before.”

He nodded and said, “I just moved here from Detroit two months ago. Some of my friends moved here a while before that and started a band. They needed a guitar player, so they called me up, and here I am.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to indicate he went wherever fate took him.

I tried again. Third time’s the charm, right?

“Are you married?” Oh, Lord. What the hell was wrong with me? I had already seen that there was no ring on his finger. Hand fetish, hello.

Jack caught the scarlet flush that immediately flooded my face. He got a sort of lopsided grin on his face – I hope I wasn’t squirming around too bad at that point – and solemnly held up his left hand to show me the lack of ring while I tried not to die of mortification. He then said, quite innocently, “No girlfriend either, if you know someone who’s interested.”

Just then, the waitress who wasn’t impressed by cleavage snapped out, “Order,” right behind me. I whirled and gave her a frown. Mike was definitely getting the next round. I quickly told her what we wanted and then turned back before Jack left. It was just my rotten luck that Eric was standing right behind him and with the nurse under his arm, no less. Eric looked down at me, and said, “Mary. How are you? You must know Cheryl from work?” He nuzzled her temple and she actually fluttered her eyelashes up at him. God, how sickening.

In the iciest voice I could muster, I said, “Fuck off, Eric.” It was hard going from hot to cold like that and back again. I looked back over at Jack, but all I could do at that point was curtly nod my head at him and say, “Bye, Jack.” I didn’t mean to sound so cold or dismissive to him, but my mind was racing in tight, painful circles. He had a bit of a puzzled look on his face, but he nodded slightly in return, sent a quick glance behind himself at Eric, then melted into the crowd.

Even though I was absolutely seething, I calmly turned around and paid for the drinks, then took the bloody tray myself and ignored Eric when he called my name. He actually had the balls to sound like he was surprised at my behavior. If I had even so much as looked at him, he would have been wearing the contents of the tray down the front of his expensively tailored silk shirt. Bastard. I should have burned the fucking things when I had the chance.

I beelined for the table, and I could tell Bernie was going to say something smart-assed about how long I took until he saw the set expression on my face and the short, jerky movements I used as I put the tray down. It was lucky for everyone that they were drinking beer, because I surely would have slopped a martini or a shot glass all over the cork inlay.

“What happened, honey?” he asked as he pulled me into his arms for a hug.

“Eric and his nurse happened,” I gritted out against his neck. Usually just the scent of his cologne could calm me down, but not that time. I elaborated for him, so he would know what a right prick Eric was, as if he didn’t know that already.

I lifted my head from the crook of his neck and said angrily, “You know the guitar player, Jack? The one that I was drooling over the whole damn time?” To give him credit, Bernie didn’t even crack a smile when I so baldly admitted the facts – he just nodded.

“Yeah, well I had met him up there, after I flashed the waitress. He was sweet and sexy and I was trying to hit on him, but my college education failed me.” Poor Bernie was used to me and my garbled, mixed-up sentences, so he nodded his head encouragingly and prompted me, “Then what?”

“The waitress interrupted and then Eric showed up right behind Jack with the nurse. I got so pissed off and bitchy remembering her bony ass under MY boyfriend on MY leather couch, so I told Eric to fuck off. But I didn’t mean to be bitchy to Jack. Oh my God, Bernie, it was bad,” I sighed

I buried my face back in his neck and he stroked my hair to calm me. I felt Kyle pat me on the back, and started to feel the tiniest fraction of a bit better. It was wonderful, really it was, to have friends like these in moments of crisis.

“Hey, look at me.” Bernie nudged my chin up and I gave him a watery half-smile. “It wasn’t that awful, Mary.”

I grabbed a napkin from the table and swiped at my eyes and nose. I shook my head sadly and argued, “It was bad, Bernie. Now Jack’ll think that I’m nuts or something and I won’t have a chance with him. Not that I did anyway,” I finished dejectedly.

“Hush, now. He came up to you and introduced himself, right?” Bernie waited patiently for my nod of acquiescence. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I thought he had only bumped into me accidentally.

Bernie spread his hands as if to indicate that was indeed that. “Well, then. I’d say you have nothing to worry about.” In my muddled state of mind, I wasn’t quite following his logic, but he was trying to make me feel better, and that’s what counted just then.

I heard the others murmur in agreement and Natasha said, quite kindly for her, “Why don’t you drink your beer, Mary. Just sit and relax for a little bit.”

I felt guilty for bringing everyone down. “I’m sorry to ruin the night, guys.” And I was. Usually it was Stacey that caused all the drama when we went out, but I guess my psyche felt the need to substitute for her or something. This kind of stuff never happened to me, so why tonight of all nights?

They all made soothing noises and gestures, and despite myself, I grinned. I did as Natasha suggested and finished my beer, but my heart just wasn’t into staying out any longer. I told them that I was going to go home to get some sleep. Bernie and Mike were kind enough to walk me outside and Mike hailed a cab for me. Again, it paid to have the face of an angel.