In her last review, my new friend cka…made the comment "I am awed at how productive you are." That being noted, I though this might be an appropriate time to offer a more in- depth explanation of "Why I Write," and why I write so much. For anyone who might be interested, you may link my LJ through my FF Profile. Every writer has a story, and this one is mine.
As for this chapter, it's short and sweet, and I implore green aura and JP to offer suggestions on my Spanish phrases. My apologies if I mangle your language!
-
-
Matt McGuire sat at the bar, sipping a Tequila Sunrise. He needed this drink. He has spent the last three days driving Larry Tudgeman's metallic blue Ferrari all over the dusty Mexican countryside, visiting hippie communes where women in long skirts baked their own bread and men with long beards whittled toys out of blocks of wood for dirty-faced, barefoot kids who would certainly prefer to be playing video games, if they knew any better.
It was hard to imagine Miranda Sanchez, his first crush, his first love, involved in such a counter-culture. What in the world had happened to his sister's fun-loving friend whose main concern had always been how to increase their popularity at school? That girl could spend hours on the phone, and now, it seemed, wherever she might be, it was at least fifty miles away from the nearest phone.
And so Matt had spent all this time driving. But at least there was now a good possibility he had finally found her. The hippie folks down the road at La Familia Madre Tierra assured him that Miranda would be here at this tavern, singing and dancing on a Friday night, entertaining the locals, as well as a generous sprinkling of adventuresome tourists who dared to come off the tour bus into the heart of the Mexican desert.
Matt appeared to be one of those tourists, with his fancy car, his stylish American clothes, and his well- trimmed beard. He sat at the bar alone, stroking his beard, and thinking about Miranda. The last time he had seen her was the summer before he went into tenth grade at Hillridge High. Miranda was excitedly telling Lizzie about her new dorm room at the University of Texas. Lizzie was raving about the University of California, where she and Gordo would be attending classes together.
After that, Matt occasionally heard a report from Lizzie about how Miranda was doing---graduate studies in Sociology, a stint in the Peace Corp, a visit to relatives in Mexico, a decision to return to her roots and live off the land---but Matt never actually saw her again.
But now, apparently, he was about to.
And frankly, it made him a little nervous. Sure, he had agreed to this assignment to help out Lizzie's old friend Larry Tudgeman, and he had also agreed because it was impossible to refuse the hearty compensation Tudge offered for his services (including the unparalleled privilege of driving a Ferrari), but deep down Matt knew that on some level he was very curious to see for himself exactly what had become of Miranda Sanchez.
His first crush. His first love. It had been so silly. He had been so silly. But somehow, he had never forgotten her. He'd had lots of girlfriends since then, many who were easily forgotten, but all these years, Miranda continued to hold a special, quiet place in his depths of heart. Sometimes he wondered if she was the yardstick against which he measured all his potential new girlfriends. If so, his mother's wish for grandchildren was in big trouble.
Matt was 27 now, and hopelessly single….well, Melina was still trying to rope him in, but he wasn't about to let that happen, no matter what kind of guilt trip his mother laid on him every time they spoke by phone. Marriage. Babies. Not for him! Not yet. He had a lot of living yet to do.
At the moment that living included downing a second Tequila Sunrise as he watched the Mariachi band on the small stage tuning their instruments.
Miranda singing. Miranda dancing. He had seen her on stage a few times when she and Lizzie had been in high school. True, Miranda couldn't act her way out of a paper bag (as, surprisingly, it turned out, his sister could) but that girl could belt out a tune, and there was something exotic about the way she moved her hips.
Matt smiled into his glass, remembering the way Miranda moved her hips. He hoped she hadn't aged well, didn't look good. Years ago, their three year ago difference had been insurmountable, but now, if she looked good, and if she was the least bit sweet to him, on top of this little crush that had been stowed away in the back of his heart all these years, it was going to be awfully hard not to---
It was a trap, he realized suddenly. He was walking into a trap! He panicked. This wasn't Tudgeman's idea at all, was it? His mother had conspired with her employer to devise this plan as a way to get her wayward son married off and producing grandchildren! A trap. A plot! He had to get out of here!
He stood up to leave, thinking "To hell with Tudgeman!" but before he could take a step, the chubby leader of the Mariachi band stepped up to the microphone, adjusted his huge straw hat, and announced, in about as much Spanish as Matt could recall from high school, "Ahora! Presentamos a la muy bonita y talentosa…lovely and fabulous… Rosalita!"
Matt did not know what "talentosa" meant, but he did know he had not heard anything that sounded like Miranda or Sanchez, so he sat down again, breathing a sigh of relief. Maybe the hippies had steered him incorrectly, despising his fancy automobile, or perhaps there had simply been a change in the entertainment lineup. At any rate, he once again felt safe.
But then she was there, on stage, black curls cascading down the full length of her back, her eyes shining, everything about her glowing. A pretty red rose was tucked into the right side of her hair. Her hips swayed as she came forward to the microphone, beating a tamborine in her hands, and crying "Ai ai ai ai ai ai ai!" to set the energy for the evening's performance.
Matt sat, mesmerized. Not only had she not aged badly, she had aged wonderfully. She appeared more beautiful that he ever remembered. Maybe it was the costume… a long, flowing skirt in bright, ethnic colors, and a simply white peasant shirt, pushed down to expose both shoulders. Maybe it was her voice…clear as a bell, and full of the joy of life. Most of all it was her smile, her demeanor, as she flirted with the audience, drawing them in with the sway of her hips, a wink of her eye.
She was sexy, but not too sexy, not strip-club sexy. This was the honest sexy that came from being absolutely contented with life, 100 per cent confident in yourself.
Matt was 100 per cent confident that he was in love.
Of course, even as he felt this way, he realized he was a bit drunk, so maybe he shouldn't jump to conclusions. For the moment, he knew he was well hidden in the shadows at the back of the bar, so he decided to sit back and enjoy the show.
Miranda sang song after song in the old Mariachi tradition. He understood enough Spanish to surmise that almost every song was a love song, and he felt himself falling deeper and deeper. His head was spinning. This was too good to be true.
Miranda sang for the delight of the crowd, working up hearty rounds of applause at the end of each song, until at last she thanked the crowd profusely in both English and Spanish, and stepped off the stage.
The band continued to play, the hefty mandolinist in the large straw hat taking over as vocalist. Miranda walked through the crowd, towards the bar, and Matt drew in a deep breath as he realized she was heading directly towards him.
The room was, in fact, quite dark, and smoky, so Miranda did not at first notice Matt sitting at the bar. Besides, it was her habit to not look too closely at anybody after she sang. Sometimes there were young men in the crowd-- -young, somewhat drunk men--- who too easily imagined themselves in love after seeing her performance. The smallest glance or smile on her part could be taken as a sign of encouragement, so she avoided contact as much as possible.
At the moment, all she could think of was something to soothe her tired throat.
"Rico!" she called to the bartender, rolling her "R" like a native.
Rico waved and produced a tall glass of bubbly water, topped with a slice of lime, placing the drink on the bar. Directly next to Matt.
Matt pulled back, as if it were a snake. Miranda got closer. Now she was next to him, grabbing her drink, chugging it down with an audible sigh of delight.
Matt kept looking at her. Even up close, she still looked good. She was so close he could almost touch her, but he didn't. And he didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. He was still mesmerized.
As Miranda drank, she felt the stare of the young man sitting beside her. An American, no doubt, she decided, as she glanced at him quickly through the corner of her eye. Kind of cute, actually. She liked the beard, so trim and neat. Not like Gus' beard, scraggly down to the middle of his chest. Ugh! Gus!
But this guy was cute.
But she wasn't going to look at him again, not even through the corner of her eye. Young, cute, American…that spelled trouble. The last thing she needed at this point in her life was trouble.
Yet…somehow…she couldn't resist. Something told her to look again. Slowly, barely, she turned her head, glancing. There was something about this one, something different---
"Ppppwwwhh!" Suddenly Miranda was spitting out her club soda, splattering Matt's stylish American shirt.
"Oh my God!" she exclaimed dramatically, clutching the bar. "Oh my God! It's Matt McGuire!"
Matt looked at her and smiled, feeling all tingly inside.
"Oh my God," he nodded quietly, his grin growing till it nearly popped off his face. "Oh my God. It's Miranda Sanchez."