22 - The Joker

“Dude, you don’t drink wine in a place like this,” David ridiculed his oldest friend, because that’s just what he did.  He was The Joker and enjoyed living up to the challenge of the name each and every day.  It was only occasionally that he was forced to step away from that persona, and this was going to be one of those occasions.  It was time to figure out what the hell was going on in Jon’s head.

The two men were having dinner in a restaurant not too far from the hotel and, in deference to the great city of Nashville, it was a BBQ joint.  Most people there were more interested in beer and ribs than the other patrons and, even with his long blonde curls, black ball caps made them unremarkable to everyone around them. 

They’d still chosen a relatively quiet corner in the back for their dinner – as quiet as a shit kicking restaurant could be.  It suited David’s purposes better to be away from the country music jukebox and the buzzing bar area.

“Yet here I am, drinking wine.”  Jon smiled smugly and held his glass aloft, flaunting his poison of preference.

“You’re a conventional nonconformist asshole.”

David parked his beer bottle on the scarred wooden table and shook his head.  He would never understand a native Jersey boy being more interested in wine than beer, but who was he to judge what the guy drank with his BBQ?  There were more captivating things afoot.

“Okay, Jon.  I know this is highly irregular, but if I put aside the jokes for a minute can we talk?  Like, really talk?”

His friend’s face shifted from a neutral smile into a weary mask of resignation, and he imbibed an over-large gulp of the wine.  “Dave, I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.”  He leaned forward on his elbows, earnestly informing Jon, “You’re better, but you’re not fine.”

Earlier in the day, he might have allowed Jon to get by with that because he’d looked pretty good when David arrived.  When they’d met up for dinner a little while ago, though… It wasn’t as bad as the footprint the last couple years had left on his face, but it wasn’t relaxed like it had been earlier. Something was going on and, to determine what that was, he had to figure out what had caused the improvement in the first place. 

Cassidy had said Monday was Eeyore Jon and today was Tigger Jon.  More or less.  David had a tendency to supply his own interpretations when people weren’t forthcoming, and Cassidy hadn’t been terribly cooperative.  Clams had nothing on that girl.

Everybody had their right to privacy, yadda, yadda…  Still a pain in the ass. 

“Dave, shit isn’t the same anymore and it’s taking some getting used to.  That’s it.”

“Now, see, you say that like it’s a bad thing.”  He waggled a finger across the table as though Jon was a naughty boy.  “Sometimes different is good, you crusty curmudgeon.  Trying starting a tour in May instead of February.  See if you don't find it refreshing.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure.”  David wasn’t easily deterred, and his mind had enough funhouse hallways to allow for another ten or fifteen approaches to the same topic.  “What’s been new and interesting during the last two days of your life?”

The pissy frown being cast at him said that the new approach hadn’t been subtle enough.  “I’ve been Obie’s bitch and I got most of a song done.”

“Ah.  So that’s what had you looking so happy when I got here today?  Not the bitch thing, but the song?”

“I guess.”

There were a thousand paper napkins on the table, in anticipation of messy ribs, and he picked one up to throw in Jon’s face.  “That’s a bullshit flag, in case you were curious.  Five yard penalty, repeat the down.”

“Christ, Lema, what do you want from me?”

“From you?” His eyes narrowed with contemplation.  “Nothing.  For you, however, is a totally different ballgame.  A bullshit free one.”

“I said I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Damn, Jon could be an obstinate fucker when he took a notion, and it seemed like he was always taking a notion when somebody started asking questions about what was happening in that now-gray head.  Or was showing too much interest in his well-being.  Jon was probably the only person in the world who put himself as the center of attention in front of thousands of people, yet hated being the center of attention, particularly when it stemmed from his being a mere mortal.

“Okay, then let’s play charades.”  He flipped his middle finger up.  “Guess what that one is?”

At least Jon was laughing now.  As The Joker, he’d take what he could get and then dart down another funhouse hallway. 

“Okay, new game, J.B..  I’m going to tell you what I think.  Then you can lie and insist that I’m wrong for a while until you get tired of me badgering you, at which point you’ll acknowledge that I know every damn thing there is to know about you and beg me to be your mental health professional.  Ready?”

The bullshit flag fluttered in his face, but Jon didn't call a penalty.  “Bryan, you’re the craziest motherfucker I’ve ever known.”

He lifted one shoulder.  “No shit.  Like you haven’t said that a thousand times since we were fifteen.  So are you going to talk to me or am I going to regale you with my elaborate suppositions as to what might put a smile on your face one minute and take it away the next?”

Speaking of taking smiles away, the one that Jon was wearing drooped significantly and he shifted his attention to the wineglass in front of him, studiously dragging his index finger around the rim.  David had hit a nerve.  There was only one thing volatile enough to giveth and taketh away happiness at the drop of a hat, and it was spelled “women”.

“Dorothea?” he hazarded.

“No.”

“Steph?”  There had been some turmoil with Jon’s daughter in the past.  Maybe things weren’t going so well there.

“No.”

“Cocaine?”  Ridiculous, but so was the way Jon was acting.

“Don’t be a dumbass.”

David preferred to let most everything roll off of his back with a laugh.  That suited his personality and his doctor told him it was also good for the blood pressure.  Sometimes, though, he just couldn’t let it roll.

“You know what?  You’re starting to piss me off with this strong, silent shit.  I’ve known you for almost forty friggin’ years and I’m still here taking that ‘secrets to the grave’ shit seriously.  Did it occur to you that it might make you feel better to talk about it?  That it might make me feel better?  It’d sure be nice to move on with our goddamn lives.”

At least Jon was looking at him now and had stopped screwing around with his wine glass.  He face was pulled into a thoughtful frown, as though he’d never considered David’s feelings a factor and was weighing the validity of it.  Apparently, Dave’s feelings rated as worthy of something, because Jon sighed deeply and leaned forward to speak in a low voice.

“You breathe a word of this to anyone, I swear to God I will wire your keyboard to a car battery and fry your ass.”

Halle-friggin-lujah.

“You have zero mechanical aptitude, but I’ll pretend not to know that and quake in fear.” He rolled his dramatically toward the ceiling.  If the guy was going to drop threats, they should at least be believable.  Jeez. 

“Dammit, Dave, I’m not kidding!” 

A blind man could see that, so he corralled his inner smart-ass and tied him to a chair.  This was a significant step and David was grateful that it was forthcoming.  He wouldn’t do anything else to discourage his friend.

“Okay, okay!  It goes no further, I swear on my Tony awards.”  He was very, very fond of his Tonys.

The rest of the wine slipped down Jon’s throat, and he absently rolled the stemware between his thumb and forefinger while a drumroll echoed in David’s head. 

“I haven’t been able to write anything since Sambora left.”

What?  No.  Not possible.  He was always writing.

“I see you with that notepad and your guitar all the time.  I’ve even seen you making notes in your phone.”

“And all of it goes in the real or virtual trash,” was Jon’s bitter admission.  “Because it doesn’t belong on an American Idol rerun, much less an album.  I was getting to the point where I thought I might be finished.”

There were important words there.  Important past tense words that implied rainbows and kittens had appeared on the scene with a basket of baby ducks in tow to save the day.

“And something evidently happened between Monday and today to change that thought?”

Jon waved his empty glass at a passing server, silently requesting a refill before his mouth contorted wryly.  “Yeah.  I found a muse.”

Well, if that wasn’t mucho fascinating-o.

The Nine Muses were the daughters of Zeus, each of which protected a different aspect of the arts.  Calliope was epic poetry, Terpsichore was dance, yadda, yadda, yadda.  If memory served correctly, Euterpe was music – or muse-ic, perhaps – but Dave had a sneaking suspicion that wasn’t the name of Jon’s muse.  That muse’s name probably rhymed more closely with… Oh, say, “Cassidy”.

Jon definitely hadn’t been impressed when Dave had hijacked her “Dixie” nickname for his own personal use.  He’d thought Jon was going to sue for copyright infringement or something from the look on his face.

Muse status would also explain why Clam Girl wasn’t interested in giving any more information about Jon than was strictly required.  If he were a betting man – and hell, he was.  He loved the horses, but that was an entirely different subject… 

If he were a betting man, he’d say today hadn’t been Cassidy's first contact with Jon since Monday.  The Dixie muse had been covering her very shapely ass – and Jon’s – with those short, sweet answers.  In all likelihood, based on the time Dave had spent with her, he’d bet she didn’t like the whole lying thing and was keeping it to a minimum. 

Damn, am I a detective or what?

Now the only question was…

Did he really want to know if they were having sex?  The muse title was new, but a non-wife spinning through Jon’s orbit had happened more than once.  Of course, Dave had never breathed a word when he had found himself stumbling upon the knowledge – or the woman – because it wasn’t his business.  The way he understood it, Jon and Dorothea had some type of weird arrangement that was also none of his business, and he’d assumed there was some sort of non-wife clause outlined within.

But all of that was a lifetime ago.  They’d been young and high on fame, fully enjoying every perk and benefit that had been thrown their way – blondes, brunettes and redheads alike.  Either Jon had gotten better at discretion after they all hit mid-life crisis, or he hadn’t availed himself of a non-wife in quite some time.

He would calls those odds even.  Either was equally likely.

Curiouser and curiouser.

“So, I just mentally wrote a fifty page thesis based on those four words,” he cordially enlightened his friend.  “You wanna edit it for me?  Show me which parts I’m wrong about and which ones I’m not?”

“Not particularly.”

“Yeah, well, do it anyway.”

Jon’s fresh glass of wine arrived along with their shredded, barbecue chicken sandwiches, so he was granted a moment’s reprieve before leaning in to say, “All you need to know is that the muse sparked something in me that was dead – not that I thought was dead, but was literally pushing up daisies.”

“We talking about your writing mojo or your dick?”  Yeah, that was totally tasteless, but sometimes he thought the filter between his mind and his mouth might be missing.  If he’d ever had one to begin with.

In this particular instance, the missing filter earned him a nasty stink eye. 

“My dick has never been dead.  Ever.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Super Dick and all that.  Pardon me for questioning your virility.”  He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, the music and laughter swirling around him like a comfortable blanket.  “So how do you wanna play this?  Act like I’m stupid and haven’t put any of the unspoken pieces together, or speak the pieces so we both know what I know?”

"You’re not getting locker room stories, if that’s what you’re after.” The silver head shook as he shoved aside the top bun of his sandwich and poked through the sauce-drenched chicken.  Apparently not interested in food, he put the fork aside as well and looked to David.  "Here are the pieces I’m giving you.  One, she…”

And… cue the crickets.  Because that was it.  He just stopped, leaving his unfinished thought hanging there like a-   This was not the time to be entertaining himself with raunchy similes.   

“Hello?”  David snapped his fingers in front of Jon’s face.  “You were giving me pieces.”

“That was before I put words to the pieces.  Once I heard them in my head… I’m not telling you.”  The stubborn set of his jaw backed up that claim with three bodyguards and a Howitzer.  “Suffice it to say that it’s not a simple.  Add in the external bullshit that comes with my involvement in her newfound music career and her prospective contribution to the band…  Well, it’s motherfucking impossible.”

Innocently and openly assisting Obie’s fair-haired protégé for all to see while he wanted nothing more to be “mused” behind closed doors.  Undeniably a sticky situation, but not wholly insurmountable.

“So, this might be a stupid question, but since I’m a muse virgin, I don’t know the answer.  Can’t you draw inspiration from her at a distance?  Because, it seems to me, that writing inspiration is more mental than… interactive.  Am I wrong?”

“It’s not like I’m fixated on her looks and waxing poetic about them, it’s…  Jesus, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”  Down went the rest of the wine, leaving another empty glass.

Honestly, David couldn’t believe it either.  Not necessarily for the subject matter, but the fact that his friend was opening up.  It didn’t happen often and he refused to take it lightly. 

“No, don’t stop.  Seriously.  Explain it to me.”

Jon’s sigh was gut-deep.  “You spent time with her.  How would you describe her?”

How would he describe her?  Bubbly? Too much like champagne.  Sweet?  Too cotton candy.  Hot?  No friggin’ kidding.  Probably better to keep it simple for this exercise.

“Happy, I guess.”

“Bingo!”  Jon’s wide, toothy grin was not the reaction he’d been anticipating.  “Spend enough time with her and that happiness spreads like osmosis, bringing peace and mental clarity with it.  You can’t get that from a distance.”

“So this girl is basically your sanity?”

The laugh Jon punched out was anything but amused.  “She said something similar, so I guess it’s official.  Yeah, she’s my sanity.  For now, at least.”

Okay, now David at least had a better understanding.  He didn’t know how healthy it was for his friend, but he had a better understanding. 

“What are you gonna do when she gets tired of being your sanity?” he probed, playing devil’s advocate since somebody had to do it.  “Worse yet, what happens when she wants to be more than your sanity?”

It might not have been the most tasteful thing to bring up, but the muse business wasn’t necessarily classy in the first place.  And, from the look on Jon’s face, he’d already had this thought.

“I’m not going there,” his buddy stated flatly.  “There are enough problems with this little scenario without making more.  You found out what you wanted to know and the subject is now permanently closed.”

Another interesting thought flitted through David’s overly wrinkled brain.  What if it wasn’t Cassidy, but Jon who decided she was more than his sanity? 

He’s been married almost thirty years.  You think that’s gonna change for some girl he met last week?  Because she makes him happy?

Stranger things could happen.

“One more thing,” Jon added as an afterthought, pointing a menacing finger in David’s direction and reinforcing it with a stink eye.  “Call her Dixie again and I’ll kick your ass.”

Stranger things could definitely happen.