Free Losing It by Emma Rathbone Page B

spontaneous and slightly unhinged.
    With the arrival of our second drink, we started talking about a man in town who we had both encountered, who may or may not have been homeless, and who sat on a pail on the downtown thoroughfare and played the same tuneless melody on his harmonica day in and day out. The sound had become synonymous with that area.
    â€œEvery freaking day!” said Bill.
    â€œI know,” I said. “He’s like some background extra in a computer game.”
    â€œIt would be one thing if he knew how to play the thing.”
    â€œIt’s terrible!”
    â€œAnd look”—he put his hands up in a defensive gesture—“I like zydeco.”
    I laughed. “Oh, so that’s what it is?”
    â€œYes,” he said, with an air of authority, his eyes suddenly stern. “It’s zydeco.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œBut this is getting out of hand. Learn a different tune!”
    It was all-encompassing, when he was animated—his flashing eyes, his large face and golden hair.
    We looked at each other, a little too pleased by this burst of agreement.
    â€œLet’s get out of here,” he said, his eyes gleaming.
    â€œNow?” I said. “But what about . . . We have to pay.”
    â€œAh.” He produced a crumpled ten-dollar bill and threw it on the table. “Here,” he said, “you talk to the waiter, I’ll go get Henry.” And before I knew it, he was walking out of the restaurant.
    I sat there for a second, taking this all in. I found him outside. But before I could tell him he owed me thirty dollars, Henry yanked him away. “Come on!” he said.
    Then we were swinging down the street, jerked along by the dog, who frantically ran around and made hairpin turns. I almost had to run to keep up with them. Bill kept laughing and looking back at me appreciatively. Was this going really well and I justdidn’t know it? Was he on something? Were we having a great time? I tried to align myself with just that, that the recent turn of events on our date had exhibited the kind of spontaneity usually associated with people who were having a lot of fun together and were mutually delighted by the kind of madcap things that were taking place, that just naturally arose from our special chemistry.
    I pictured us making out on a ski lift, his face rugged and tan. I saw us in an imports store, and he’s playing peekaboo behind an ethnic mask.
    We passed a hot dog stand, a yarn store. We walked through a pavilion where some men were setting up chairs for an outdoor concert. “Where are we going?” I said, out of breath, when I caught up with them on a street corner.
    â€œWe’re almost there,” he said.
    Finally we ended up at an old carousel, at the end of the historic district of the downtown area. It had golden poles and red and blue and green horses. But the paint was chipping and the whole thing was surrounded by chains. It had obviously been out of commission for some time. A tall building cast a shadow down one half of it.
    â€œAh, man,” he said. “This is so great. Isn’t it great?”
    â€œDid you come here as a kid?” I said.
    He was kneeling, tying Henry up, and he exploded with laughter.
    â€œCome on,” he said, out of breath. He climbed over the chains and got on one of the horses. He started whooping and waving his arm around.
    â€œWhat are you—”
    â€œWhat? C’mon!” he yelled.
    Henry was barking. I wanted to run away. A woman holdingtwo white shopping bags walked by; her eyes flitted back and forth between us. She picked up her pace. I climbed over the chains and got up onto the carousel. I hitched my skirt up and hoisted myself onto one of the horses next to him.
    â€œWell,” I said. “This is—”
    â€œMy friend Trevor?” Bill was looking away from me, toward a redbrick apartment building in the distance. “He’s