Every Saturday, we’ll be posting a new illustration by David Lester. The Mecca Normal guitarist is visually documenting people, places and events from his band’s 26-year run, with text by vocalist Jean Smith.
“Cash only,” says the waitress.
Warren looks in his wallet: no cash.
The waitress points across the street. “There’s a cash machine at the 7-Eleven.”
Warren is staring into his empty wallet.
“Here,” I say, putting a 10 on the counter. We walk towards my place, past the 7-Eleven. I want to suggest that he go and get some money, that he pay me back, but I don’t. Warren gets his guitar out of the trunk of his car, and we go upstairs. I bring out a small amp for him and we both set up.
“I’ll do a song by the Waterboys,” he says, adjusting his harmonica.
“I won’t know it.”
“Oh, you’ll recognize it.”
“I don’t know any songs by the Waterboys.”
“Once you hear it, you’ll recognize it.”
“I assure you that I won’t.”
Warren plays guitar and sings, adding harmonica here and there, and I find a few notes to slide around on. The song ends.
“I can’t really hear you, Celia.”
“You could move closer to me, away from your amp,” I say. “Let’s do something instrumental.”
“OK, but I’ll have to mouth the words to know where I am.”
I watch him making faces, eyes closed, silently singing to himself. The song ends.
“I still can’t hear you,” he says.
“Maybe you can sit a little closer,” I say. “Let’s try another instrumental: one without words.”
“Here’s one of mine.” Warren says, starting to play. “It’s called ‘Hot Surfer Girl.'”
I accent some of the notes, bending and sliding until he starts singing loudly about drinking wine with his hot surfer girlfriend, spending the night together kissing in the moonlight.
I stop playing and wish I could simply fly out the window. I put my guitar in its stand, wondering how I can get him out of my apartment without making an unpleasant scene.
“Are we taking a break?” he asks.
“I think we’re done. This isn’t really working.”
“Well, I can’t hear what you’re doing.”
I don’t say anything about not singing or not playing as loud or moving closer. I don’t say anything about the idea of trying to relate to me by listening—about the concept of creating balance. Warren puts his guitar down, pulls me into his lap and kisses me. The way he holds me makes me feel part of something that I’m not really part of. I am overwhelmingly a woman and he is undeniably a man, and I must accept that it is hopeless to attempt to transcend the established essence of what this means.
I represent all women and he is only one man. I’m not sure which is worse or for whom.
Warren strokes my thigh and says, “You have strong legs. I bet you can run fast.”
“Not fast, but far.”
“You have pretty feet. I like painted toenails.”
He kisses my neck and I tilt my head to give him more surface area to work with, thinking maybe guys like frilly things more than women, maybe women paint their nails pink because guys like pink. Maybe men express their femininity vicariously, through women.
“Let’s go lie down,” he whispers in my ear.
“OK.”
This time, when I don’t have an orgasm, he doesn’t mention it. He takes a little snooze and when he wakes up he wants to have sex again.
Swinging his leg over me he says, “You don’t have to worry about me getting you pregnant.”
“How so?” I ask closing my legs.
“I’ve been snipped,” he says. “Oh, and I’m a blood donor.”
“Settle down, Warren, and get off me.” He freezes above me. I can feel him trying to think of some sort of smart remark. He makes the sound like air going out of a balloon, deflating. He gets off me and lies on his back for a few minutes before putting on his clothes and collecting up his things. On his way out. he accidentally bashes his guitar case into the sliding glass door.
