“Where was he?” I asked, joining him at the balcony.
“Work. He’s a barista with me at Aromatique and works as a waiter in the evenings. We all have two jobs. Tegan and I both work at Vibes. Miraculously, we were able to get the night off together. Our boss-slash-Tegan’s boyfriend makes sure that never happens. That must have been quite a blowjob,” he huffed, looking out at the view. Before I could ask any probing questions, he turned back to me. “What about you? Were you ever in a band?”
“No.”
“Do you play an instrument? You must. Songwriters usually play something.”
“Piano and guitar.”
“You any good?”
“I’ve been told I’m not bad.” I smiled. “What about you?”
“Guitar only and I’ve been told I suck,” he countered with a self-deprecating shrug.
I chuckled appreciatively. “I like your style. Your lyrics were poignant and fresh, with a perfect amount of relatable angst. The relatable part is important. A lot of songwriters regurgitate crap they hear about on the news or on social media.”
“You’re right. So many people want to sound woke. It’s just a sales ploy.”
“ ‘Woke’? What does that mean?”
“You really don’t know?” he asked in surprise.
“I’m older than you. That doesn’t mean I’m smarter.”
“It means attuned to social injustice. Alert to what’s happening around you. It’s how I try to write. Sometimes emotional crap gets in the way, but words are therapy.”
“Wise. The key is to draw from your own experiences. At least, it works for me sometimes. Who are your influences?”
Justin furrowed his brow and then grinned. The transformation was breathtaking, even in profile. “It’s all over the map. Kendrick Lamar, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell. I like lyrics that paint a picture and use clever turns of phrase. I want to make people feel what I feel…but in a way that makes sense to them.”
“Relatable.”
“Exactly.” He bumped his fist on the railing and shot a feverish glance my way before gesturing toward the glittering city below. “I don’t want to write about bright lights and phony love stories. I want to know the people in those houses. The regular folks just trying to get by, not the ones taking selfies next to Porsches who hang out in sky bars. No offense.”
I barked a laugh. “I’m regular.”
“I’m not talking about your bowel movements,” he snarked. “Hey, don’t get me wrong. This is nice, but…the city lights from a fancy hotel…it’s not real.”
“Sure it is. It’s a perspective from above. Sometimes I can imagine flying close enough to see and hear what’s happening behind closed doors.”
“Like a peeping Tom.”
I smirked. “Something like that. Minus the creepy connotation.”
“Hmm. I’m the opposite. I want to be on the street. I want to be part of the story, not just the guy recording it. I’m not exactly a success story, though. Maybe I should think about changing my approach,” he huffed with a laugh.
“Okay, let’s try something.” I pointed toward the hillside. “Check out that house. The one with the telescope in the window. See it?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the first thing that pops into your mind?”
“I wonder if they have a dog,” he replied.
“Really?” I asked incredulously. “You just said you wanted to be part of the story. Don’t you wonder about who lives there, what they do, and if they’re happy or sad or if they’re lonely as fuck?”
He squinted in the distance, then shook his head slowly and bent to pick up his drink. “Nope. Don’t care. Right now I’m worried about the dog.”
“They might not have a dog,” I countered.
“If they do, I hope it’s small and doesn’t need a ton of exercise. Look at that fucking driveway. It would be hell to take a big dog on a walk up those hills too, but I’m guessing people do it and—why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’re either very odd or this is a not-so-subtle way of changing the subject.”
Justin raised his glass in a toast and grinned. “Both. If we talk about music and songwriting, I’m gonna want to know more about you, and that might ruin tonight. I like the mystery. Let’s keep it shallow.”
I chuckled. “Okay. Do you have a dog?”
“No. I can’t for now, but you should get one.”
“I’m not getting a dog,” I deadpanned.
“What kind? Big dog, little dog? Purebred, mutt? C’mon. I can help you with this. Don’t be shy. We’re just spitballin’ here.”
“Um, okay…well, I’d probably get a wirehaired pointing griffon,” I replied matter-of-factly.
Justin widened his eyes. “What the fuck is that?”
I threw my head back and guffawed at his comedic expression. “I don’t know. I was watching the Westminster Dog Show a couple of months ago, and the name stuck with me. He was probably some goofy-looking guy who was doing exactly the opposite of what he was supposed to be doing. That seems like the kind of dog I’d end up with. I’d say ‘Chester, come,’ and he’d either give me a bored ‘whatever, man’ look or run down the hill chasing cars.”