"Where to?" I asked after holding the door open for him.
Nathan – or Skittery, as he'd insisted I call him – shrugged. "You choose. But it'll be my treat, okay?"
"That's not ne–"
"I insist," he said firmly. "You bought me three caramel fraps and two muffins, so I owe you."
I shrugged, but I didn't fight the issue. In truth, I had only continued to slip him gratis orders so as to keep him there until I got off at noon, adding the promise of a lunch date as an extra incentive. I'd hoped, though, that his sitting inside Starbucks for the past two hours was for me as much as it was for the free coffee and pastries.
"So do you play?" I asked, gesturing to the guitar case he was carrying.
"Nah. I just like to carry it around. Exercise, you know?"
"Ha! I see you've got yourself a healthy sense of sarcasm."
"Kind of necessary," he said. "Otherwise you end up like that manager of yours."
"Al? Yeah, I don't think he's ever laughed or smiled in his life."
We turned the corner and I spotted Ramona's, a somewhat dilapidated diner that served surprisingly good food. I jutted my thumb toward it, asking, "Is here good?"
Skittery shrugged. "It's fine."
"So are you majoring in music, or is it just a hobby?"
"It's more than just a hobby," he said, "but I'm not majoring in it. I'm not in college."
My eyebrows shot up, surprised at his confession. He obviously wasn't in high school, unless he was playing hooky for the day, and I figured he couldn't be more than a year older than me. While I knew going to college wasn't a necessity, it was surprising to find someone who wasn't trying to get even a degree in general studies. I hated to think that, though, because it made me feel like a snob, and I hoped that the surprise didn't show too much on my face.
Apparently, it did. "Yeah, surprising, I know," he said with a small smile. "I mean, I went to college for a year, but it wasn't for me. I felt stupid spending money on something I wasn't that into, so I dropped out and decided to just focus on my music."
"And how is that going for you?"
"Slow," he admitted. "Thus the reason that my Starbucks trips are so few and far between."
"Where do you work?"
"Well, I have a steady part-time job teaching guitar to teenagers." Skittery made a face, leading me to believe that his clients wouldn't be winning Grammys any time soon. "I also get gigs here and there."
"Any place cool?"
"Yeah, if you consider bar mitzvahs and weddings cool," he joked. "Now and then I get a gig at some small bar or club, but most of my work is done at religious gatherings. It's not going to get me into the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame, but it pays the bills."
We placed our orders with a waitress who had an unappetizing cigarette dangling from her lips and settled back in our ratty booth, inhaling the stench of burnt bread and fresh coffee. "So what do you do?" he asked. "I assume that doling out crappy, yet satisfying, coffee-like products isn't something you plan to do the rest of your life."
"No," I said adamantly, "it's not."
"Let me guess: Doctor?"
"I faint at the sight of blood."
"Lawyer?"
"I get bored far too easily."
"Kindergarten teacher?"
I snorted. "Can you imagine me teaching five-year-olds? I would corrupt their little, malleable minds."
"So what, then?"
"Well, the goal is to become a director," I said, ducking my head down.
"Like for film and stuff?"
"Basically."
"So would you wear those old-time knee pants with a beret and sit in one of those folding chair with a megaphone, shouting out orders?"
"At this point I think I'll be lucky to be the one serving doughnuts."
"What makes you say that?"
I shrugged, glumly recalling how my work in school had been. My teachers were frustrated with me, claiming that I wasn't giving one hundred percent. They said my work was sloppy and had no real feeling behind it. While I had never been a straight A student, my grades were becoming worrisome to me. I was on the verge of failing at least two of my film classes, and I wasn't exactly wowing them in any of my other classes.
"Creative differences with my professors," I said. "They don't care much for my form of film making."
"So? Maybe they're wrong."
"Very doubtful."
"Just because they're your teachers doesn't mean they can't be wrong. Look at how many artists were shunned for their work!"
"They all lived depressing, alcohol-filled lives, and I'm pretty sure none of them were able to reap the benefits of their work until they died."
"Hey, you gotta suffer for your art!" he said. "Do I care that I have to cut my own hair to save money or that I had to learn to sew just to mend my own clothing? Heck no!" he proclaimed, punctuating the "no" with a slap of his hand against our table. "I will do anything for my art!"
I sat, back pressed against the cheap plastic of my seat, in both shock and amusement of his proclamation. "Well, that was…passionate…"
"You should have passion in your art. That's what's most important. Look at Ed Wood. Sure, his films sucked and he had no idea what he was doing; but you could tell that he had a true passion for making films and that's why they have stood the test of time."
"I think it has more to do with being awesomely bad."
He waved off my explanation. "Either way, I'm sure you'll do great with your work."
"But you haven't even seen any of my work."
"No, but I've seen your passion."
"My passion," I repeated. "In what? Coffee making? Salesmanship?"
Skittery's cheeks tinged with pink. "I just think that you have a vivaciousness and a sense of self that most filmmakers greatly lack."
It was by far the most flattering and most genuine compliment I'd ever received, and the fact that it was coming from a guy I'd been lusting over for the past week only sweetened it to my ears. "Wow…that's really…thank you!" I managed to stammer out, well-aware of the fact that I was blushing like an idiot.
The moment was ruined by the annoying buzz of a vibrating cell phone. Skittery gave me an apologetic smile as he pulled the offending phone from his pocket. One look at the ID and his eyes widened. "Oh, God! I'm so sorry, Snitch! I completely forgot that I have a lesson, like, now!"
"Oh. Well, that's okay."
"I promise to make it up to you!" he said as he gathered his things. He threw down a few bills on to the table, telling me, "And here's the money for lunch."
Recalling his proclamation of the things he did to scrimp, I shook my head in protest. "Keep the money. It's fine!"
"No, you keep it. My treat, remember?"
"Skittery…"
"Tomorrow. I have nothing to do all day. Call me and we'll hang out, okay?" He didn't wait for my response. Instead, he swooped down and gave me a quick peck on the side of my mouth. "Sorry again. I'll see you later!"
And with that he was gone.
