The Boy from the Band

Harp

Two weeks had passed since Rick took me to the emergency room. Two weeks since a second scar had been added to my stomach. I thought I would feel much better but I felt a little feverish, sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold. I didn't know whether to worry or not, I hate to be a complainer.

It was a good thing that I had a doctor's appointment. I sat in one of the exam rooms, waiting for the nurse to come in and take my blood pressure and temperature. When she did, she assured me that all was well, though I did seem to have a fever--had I had it for long?

I shrugged my shoulders, I don't own a thermometer, if something feels wrong then I go to the doctor. By the look on her face maybe I should get one. I'm getting the feeling that something is wrong.

The doctor comes in and looks at my scar, telling me I'm healing faster than he expected. "I'm a little worried about that fever," he says, "I'm going to have the nurse draw some blood and send it to the lab. I'll give you a call and let you know the results of the tests." He patted me on the back, "Don't worry, it's probably nothing. You may need a stronger antibiotic. You'll hear from us in a couple of days."

I feel really restless. I get out a little to run errands but I'm spending most of my time at home.  I feel like doing something fun. I think I'll go to that bar where Rick told me he hangs out with his friends. If his girlfriend is there, I'll make a quick exit, but I hope she's not.

I put on a pair of light blue denim shorts and a long-sleeved red and white striped tee shirt. I look at myself in the mirror before I put on my tennis shoes and brush the tangles out of my hair. I take the necklace he gave me out of its box and put it on, along with his favorite perfume. I grab my denim jacket because it's on the cool side tonight, then lock my apartment and get in my car.

It's a nice night for driving and you can smell the ocean from the road. I roll down the window halfway and turn on the radio. One of The Band's songs comes on and I consider this a good omen.

The bar where he and his buddies hang out isn't too far from the beach and it draws a lot of traffic from surfers, skaters, and beachgoers, in addition to the people who come for the music. Tonight, though, there's no music so he'll be drinking with his buddies Richard Manuel, Bobby Charles, and Harp.

I recognize three of them sitting at their favorite table, or at least I think it's them, but I don't see Rick. He's had facial hair for as long as I've known him and this guy sitting at their table is clean-shaven. I turn around and start to leave when I hear a familiar voice call, "Hey!"

I turn around and my jaw drops—the stranger is Rick and he's shaved. For as long as I've known him he's had facial hair that makes him look like a Mexican desperado or a Russian gypsy. I love to run my fingers through it, and rub my cheek against it. This looks like a different person, much younger, and I barely recognize him.

"You shaved," I say, dumbfounded and they laugh at me.

"She didn't recognize you, Rick," said Harp and I want to kill that swarthy-faced bearded bastard. He grew up on the streets of Chicago's Southside and can blow a blues harp that can make you weep. I love listening to him but he's an asshole and a mean one when he's been drinking. When he's in a good mood he can be fun, but his mood can turn on a dime, in which case, watch out.

"Shut up, Harp," says Rick and the others move to make room for me. I sit down and run my fingers down his cheek. He still has his heartbreaker looks, but now he looks like he's about sixteen. I don't know how I feel about the new Rick.

"Why'd you shave?" I ask because he hadn't mentioned wanting to shave off his facial hair before, at least to me anyway.

"I needed a change," he replied and stroked his chin with his hand, "It does feel kind of weird to have it gone. I'll have to get used to shaving every day."