Page 29 of The Way I Hate Him
Truly . . . truly hate myself.
For one, I should be working in my studio, trying to come up with lyrics that might make my studio execs happy. Instead, I spent forty-two dollars and ninety-two cents on pickles at the general store, as well as half an hour in the pickle section, racking my brain to remember what the godforsaken jar that she dropped looked like.
The entire time, I was inwardly chastising myself for even caring. This is Hattie Rowley. I have no ties and no connections to her. I technically forgot she even existed until she tried to secretly deposit that box on my front porch, yet here I am, caring that she dropped fucking pickles on my concrete floor. That’s a smell I’m sure will live there forever, no matter how many times I clean it.
There’s no reason for me to do this.
Therefore, I’m blaming my erratic actions on procrastination. I’d apparently rather spend my time in the pickle aisle with Dee Dee Coleman staring me down with a sneer on her lips than on my studio couch with my guitar across my lap and a pen in my hand.
Someone, please explain to me how this makes sense.
Irritated with myself, I exit my car with a reusable bag full of pickles, and I head into the house and straight to my office, only to stop halfway in the hallway when I hear the telltale sounds of music, but not just any music . . .The Mamas & the Papas.
Holy shit.
Color me shocked.
I wouldn’t have expected Hattie even to know who The Mamas & the Papas are, let alone softly sing to their music. And hell, her voice isn’t too bad at all.
Not to mention, it’s one of my favorite songs:Dedicated to the One I Love.
I can’t remember the last time I listened to The Mamas & the Papas, but their flawless harmonies always captured me. John Phillips’s songwriting mirrored that of The Beatles, while Denny Doherty led the group with his pure voice. Michelle and Mama Cass, fucking perfect together, their voices harmonizing so well that it almost felt like they were one human, one powerhouse staking claim to the song.
Hell, hearing them again makes me want to search for the record I have of theirs and play it on my Crosley record player.
Hmm . . .
Maybe that’s not a bad idea. I could possibly use them as some inspiration.
Although they were better known for their sunshine pop, I’m more suited for a dark folky vibe. Nonetheless, any inspiration is good inspiration.
Pickles in hand, I make my way to the office and knock on the door. Not sure why. It’s my house, my office, after all, but just out of respect.
The music stops, and Hattie says, “Come in.”
I open the door and spot her sitting cross-legged on the ground, piles of letters and empty envelopes scattered across the floor.
When she sees me, she immediately says, “There’s an order to this madness. So don’t judge me.”
“Didn’t come here to judge,” I reply, feeling awkward because this is so outside of my comfort zone. I’m truly having an out-of-body experience. “Just came to drop this off.” I set the bag in front of her, not even handing it to her. That’s how uncomfortable I am.
With a confused look, she peers into the bag and then back up at me. “You got me pickles?”
That look of surprise and the lack of disdain for me in her eyes makes me very uneasy. See, this is why I shouldn’t do nice things because it confuses everyone . . . even me.
I pull on the back of my neck. “I didn’t know what kind you were crying over—”
“I wasn’t crying over them. I was just . . . upset.”
It seemed like she was crying, but I won’t push it.
“Either way, I didn’t know what kind, so I just got one of each.”
Her eyes stay fixed on me, studying, trying to see into the depths of my dark soul.
I don’t like it.
I don’t like how exposed it makes me feel.
