Jennifer and Rocket

Chapter 1 – Dancing at Moe’s

Rocket

With a tickle of sweat dripping down my nose, I push up the face shield on my welding mask. My arms ache from holding the torch for so long. I wipe the sweat from my brow with a swipe of my arm, then take a step back. With a discerning eye I look hard at the sculpture I’ve been working on. The idea behind it has been driving me crazy. I knew what I wanted to say, but it took me a while to figure out how to say it. It’s almost done. Satisfied, I stand up and walk around the wall of metal that appears liquid. In the right light, it casts an unexpected, but an interesting shadow. My skill has improved; this piece is coming out well.

I reach for my water bottle and lift it to my mouth before I realize it’s empty. As I walk toward the sink, I’m interrupted by the buzz of my phone.

Cal: Moe’s tonight

My first thought is to ignore the message. I should stay in and finish this piece. I hesitate. When was the last time I went out?

Rocket: What time?

Cal: Early, 8, pizza before dancing

Rocket: OK

Shit, it’s already five.

I fill up my water bottle and drink it down. I still have a couple hours before I have to shower and head over.

***

Arriving at Moe’s, I spot Cal, Kelly, and a couple more friends. I met Cal and Kelly last year when I rode on the XC cycling tour. It was a transitional time for me; I raced for a few months before moving on with my life.

I give Kelly a big hug. She’s six feet tall, long and lean—pure muscle—with a wild riot of long, red curls, and an over the top personality. Not surprisingly, all the cyclists call her Big Red.

What is surprising, she’s brought along three feminine, pretty, petite, women. Not what I expected. I’m used to Kelly and her wild cyclist chick friends. While racing, in one of my drunken stupors, I slept with Kelly and one of her crazy ass friends.

I shake off that memory as I check out the women. The smallest has golden hair though she looks part Asian. The middle one is very pretty, wholesome looking, and Asian, while the tallest is a shy, pretty white girl, who can’t be more than five foot four, with a nice rack and long, shiny curls.

After eating pizza and drinking some beers, the music starts up and the women head to the dance floor. The pretty Asian girl has a way of shaking her hot butt—I find it mesmerizing, so I target on that. Thinking I’ll dance for just one or two songs, I end up getting pulled in by her big friendly smile and bubbly personality. When the band breaks, she motions that she’s thirsty. Mesmerized, I follow her to the patio, grabbing a pitcher of water and a couple cups on the way. The cool air feels good. I pass her a full cup of water.

I’m Rocket.

She guzzles down the whole cup, then presents it back to me, making it clear she wants more. She drinks this down too, smiles, and gives a big sigh.

Thanks, that was wonderful. I’m Jennifer.

You don’t strike me as a typical friend of Kelly’s. How do you know her?

We’re all friends from college.

Are you still in school?

What? No, I’m a middle school teacher. I work in Mountain View.

The preteen boys must be in love with her, even I find myself sucked in by that smile, long hair, and hot ass. The music starts up. I tip my head toward the dance floor. She nods. I grab her hand.

Zing!

Man, I haven’t felt something like that in a long time. We head back inside. My arm vibrates from proximity. There’s something about the way she dances that’s sucking me in. I was going to leave early, but find myself shutting the place down. Still, I want more.

As my friends and I walk all four women to their car, I lean in and lay on a smile. Do you want to join us at an after-hours party?

No, the two petite girls she’s with both simultaneously yell.

Jennifer shrugs a non-verbal sorry. Thanks for being my dancing partner.

As we watch the women leave Cal hits me on the arm.

Dude, where’s the after-hours party?

I shake my head and give him a raised shoulder. He barks out a laugh as he heads to his car with a wave.

Driving home, my ears ring from the music, but I have a smile on my face. I had forgotten how nice it is to dance with a clean-cut, sweet, girl. Easily falling asleep, I wake up still thinking about Kelly’s friend, Jennifer. While brewing a pot of coffee, I head to my computer. I don't know her last name, but I do know what school she teaches at. Actually, there are two middle schools in Mountain View. Each school has a website. Luckily there is only one Jennifer between them, and her last name’s Takahashi. There's a link that brings up an e-mail.

It hits me as I stare at her name on the address line; I need a plan. While I search for inspiration, I fill my mug with coffee and get an idea. I’ve wanted to check out the latest exhibit at the de Young in San Francisco. After navigating to the museum’s website, I send an e-mail to Jennifer asking if she wants to join me. Now it’s in her hands.

Chapter 2 – Sunday morning

Jennifer

I wake to a sunny, blue sky, Sunday, which makes me happy. The smell of coffee finally gets me out of bed. My roommate Kara, a high school teacher, is up and bustling around.

Hey how was dancing last night? she asks as she hands me a mug.

Fun, we met up with some of Kelly’s friends and danced until they kicked us out.

Any good prospects?

Kelly’s friends are fun for a party. But to date? Never. Those guys are way too….

Wild, unsophisticated, rough around the edges…

Yeah, all of the above.

Before my shower, I decide to log into my computer. I’m about to delete an e-mail since it looks like spam when the subject line Visit the de Young catches my eye.

I enjoyed dancing with you last night. Later today I’m heading up to San Francisco to go to the new exhibit at the de Young. Do you want to join me? —Rocket

A day at the de Young would be fun, but really? He was kind of edgy and frayed. Do guys like that go to art galleries? Would I want to go there with him? My mouse hovers over delete. Upon second thought, I realize deleting it without responding would be rude.

Thank you for the invitation. Sorry, I have plans. —Jennifer

Now my mouse hovers over the send button. Last night was fun, so I change the e-mail to read:

Dancing was fun. Thank you for the invitation. Sorry, I have plans. —Jennifer

Still, I hover over the send button. Sitting back in my chair, I stare at the e-mail. Why am I second-guessing myself? He’s definitely not my type. I like my men polished and sophisticated, which is certainly not him.

But I love going to art galleries. My friends are into sports, not art. No guy has ever asked me to an art gallery. Did Rocket call Kelly to see what I like? No, Kelly would have contacted me right away. Why would he choose art? Why is he asking me to join him? My nerves jingle as I get up and walk around. Why do I find this e-mail so… disturbing?

Jennifer, what’s up? Kira questions as she looks up from her book. That pacing, did some parent send you a flame e-mail?

The guy I was dancing with last night invited me to go to the de Young.

That sounds like something you’d like.

Yeah, but would I like it with him? He was kind of rough and… blue collar, not my type.

If he invited you to a car race, I can see you saying no, but he can’t be too rough if he likes going to art galleries.

This is so confusing. I’d be locked in a car with him for an hour in each direction.

If he’s a creep, take the train home, call me, and I’ll pick you up at the station.

My heart’s pounding a mile a minute as I stare at the e-mail. My mind flashes back to a conversation I had a few days ago with my college friend, Hita. The two of us were complaining about our old boyfriends. We were talking about finding the right guys to date. Hita was wondering if we’re looking for the wrong traits when we choose guys, that we should shake things up and date a guy we would normally never consider. Maybe going to an art gallery with one of Kelly’s friends will give me a new perspective. It will be my way of shaking things up. Maybe this is what I need to get perspective.

What the hell, I exclaim. You only live once. I modify my e-mail to read:

I, too, enjoyed dancing. Thank you for the invitation. Sounds like fun. —Jennifer

Before I lose my limited bravado, I press the send button. Yikes! Did I really say yes? I’m going to be stuck in a car with this guy. What will we talk about? What have I done?

About twenty minutes later, an e-mail arrives.

What’s your address? —Rocket

Do I want him to know where I live? Could he be a mass murderer? No, he’s a friend of Kelly’s. Kelly gave him a hug when she saw him. Kelly wouldn’t be hugging a rapist, right? With a deep breath, I decide to give him my address. Within seconds, I get another e-mail.

I’ll be at your place by 1. —Rocket

Returning the e-mail, I give him my phone number.

Text me and I’ll come down, the front door of my apartment building is locked. —Jennifer

With three hours remaining until he shows up, I plan out my morning. I need to take a shower, review next week’s lesson plan, and update student scores on PowerSchool. Rats, I was going to spend the afternoon scrapbooking. I’ll have to wait till next weekend for that.

***

I feel urban and trendy with my cute new ankle boots, skinny jeans, and motorcycle-inspired leather jacket. Receiving Rocket’s text, I excitedly run down the stairs.

What!

He drives a truck. As in…a big gnarly looking pickup truck. This guy is so not me. I date guys who drive sedans, sports cars, even SUVs, but definitely not a truck. This truck looks like it’s been used for work, as in fieldwork. The cars I get into are used to commute, drive to the beach, or go wine tasting in Napa. Why did I agree to this?

It’s too late to cancel; instead, I plaster on a fake smile and wave as I head to his truck. It’s huge and jacked up. What’s with that? I reach up to open the door and wonder how to get in. Earlier, I contemplated wearing a skirt. I’d never get into this truck wearing a skirt. I have to crawl into the cab. How rude would it be for me to turn around now? Instead, the good girl inside of me maintains the fake smile as I give him a friendly, Hey. Surprisingly, the inside of this truck is much more like a car. Okay Jennifer, you can do this. It’s your one day to walk on the wild side. I buckle my seat belt and look over at Rocket.

In daylight, he’s handsome.

Really handsome.

That is if you like your men dressed shabby, covered in tattoos, with a ring on his lip and eyebrow, and in desperate need of a haircut. His frayed black T-shirt hugs his arms and chest, he’s totally jacked, his shirt highlights his muscles. What could he possibly do to get them cut like that?

"Is that the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?" I blurt out as I take in his sleeves.

Rocket smiles.

Damn, he has one nice smile.

Yeah, a buddy of mine is a great tattoo artist. He unconsciously rubs his hand over the arm we’re talking about. "I’ve got a montage that includes the Birth of Venus and Van Gogh’s Starry Night on my other arm."

I take it you’re into classical art?

He nods as he navigates out of my apartment complex and onto the freeway.

Nervous energy runs through me as I wonder why some redneck would want to be with me. Or is he a hipster? Either way, he doesn’t fall into the category of guys I date. My brain buzzes from nerves as I uncontrollably blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind.

How do you figure out which art you’re going to wear, and which you’re going to look at? Jeeze, Jennifer, can you try to act cool?

Lots of choices, I guess it’s what strikes me at the time. Classical artworks better on skin. A Rothko would be a disaster.

Why do you drive such a big, jacked up truck? Damn, there I go again, asking one more stupid question.

I bought it when I was welding, in the oil fields of Wyoming, it's still practical since I’ve yet to fix my road.

Fix my road? Where does he live? What am I doing with this guy? I like my men educated, cultured. Not welders who live on unpaved roads.

Let me get this right, you’re an art loving, truck driving, cyclist…welder?

I was a welder, sculpting with metal is my vocation.

Where does cross country cycling fit in?

He looks straight ahead; one of his hands is at the top of the steering wheel, which highlights the planes of his toned arm. Damn, why does that look so good? His other hand’s relaxed and leaning on his leg. He doesn’t respond. Did he hear me? Should I repeat the question, or did I upset him? I feel unsure of what to say next as I stare out the window.

The silence spreads out too long, making me regret my decision to join him.

Cycling was a hobby that turned into a transitional activity.

A transition from what to what?

Again, another long pause while he continues to stare straight ahead at the road. His jaw muscles contract. Have I overstepped the boundaries of acceptable conversation?

I got a degree in art. There weren’t any jobs when I graduated from college, especially for artists. The oil industry was hiring, I knew how to weld. I took a job where I could get one, doing my art when I had free time. After a few years, I wanted to do more with my life. I went back to school for computer science…programming. I did welding gigs in my spare time for extra cash. I got away from my art, I lost my purpose. Cycling became the activity that I did to relax. That’s when I met Kelly.

Are you doing what you want to be doing now?

Yeah, I’m a programmer at a gaming company. My sculpting training comes in handy; it’s a great challenge. On weekends, I get to work on my art.

We sit quietly for a while. He’s not a big talker. He has a better job and more education than I initially thought. Checking him out, I wonder. He’s a handsome guy—lean, jacked, with great bone structure. Why doesn’t he take better care of himself? Get a good haircut, wear better clothes, and shave.

What type of art do you like? I ask to break the discomfort silence brings me.

Well-executed art, where the artist has something to say and lets the art do the talking. History has always interested me. I like learning what influenced the artist; it gives depth to what they’re saying.

Talking about art seems to relax him. He’s surprisingly articulate and contemplative, not adjectives I’d apply to any of Kelly’s cycling friends.

Are you into art? he asks with a flat, non-judgmental tone.

No one’s ever asked me that.

"I like creating with my hands, but crafts, not art. I like going to galleries. I always get the audio tour. I like being educated on why a piece of work is interesting or important. I know people in the art community consider audio tours to be so bourgeoisie."

Only pretentious, insecure dicks, he quickly responds. Actual artists want people to understand what they create. It’s an honor to have people interested enough in your art that they want to learn what you were thinking.

I looked up the de Young, are we going to the post-WWII modern art exhibit?

Are you familiar with that time?

I’ve seen Roy Lichtenstein and Jackson Pollock’s works, but I can’t say that I’m familiar with the other artists, or really understand why they were considered to be good.

This show has a bunch of the leaders in the New York movement. It’s my favorite modern art period, Rocket explains as the air in the truck relaxes. "The Americans were doing interesting work. They were rejected by the art world for being American