Dogs Chase Squirrels 10 - It's Not Her, It's Me

Frank’s eyes moved across the table towards each of his band mates, his demeanor that of a general commanding his troops -- except his troops seemed less than eager to participate in the battle at hand.  And he was having none of it.  Not today.

“Alright, let’s try this again.”  The heavy tabby placed his hands flat on the table, leaning forward.  “We need ten songs for the CD.  I’m only asking you guys to come up with two each.  Originals.  No covers.  It’s not that hard.”

Benson, the crow, tapped his feathered fingers on the table, looking equal parts tired and lethargic.  Despite his stance on alcohol -- especially at eight in the morning, God, who gets up that early anymore? -- he settled on a gin and tonic to sip on.  “What’s the problem with a couple of covers?  Everyone does it these days.”

“But we’re not everyone, Ben.  This is our first CD!  I don’t want some asshole buying it and going ‘hey, you’re the guys that did that Sting cover, right?’ -- we’re more than a cover band.”

“I never said we were, Frank -- and stop putting words into my beak.  I said a couple of covers.  Two, maybe three, tops.”  Benson lifted his wing, raising a few grayed fingers to make his point.  “No one’s going to care if we pad it out a bit.”

“But I don’t want to pad -- ugh, never mind.  Just go sulk or something.”  Benson rolled his eyes as Frank turned his attention to Seymour, the only one of the three that appeared to show any sort of interest.  “What about you, Sy?”

“Well, we’re going with my song, of course.”

“I think you mean my song,” Irene said with a smirk, batting her tail against Sy’s head.  Her back was facing the jackal as she kicked one leg over the other, idly tapping at her phone screen.

“Er, y-yeah.  Your song,” Seymour stammered out, flustered over the squirrel’s sudden tail-battering.  Composing himself, he readdressed the feline.  “Irene is our best song, Frank, you know that.”

“It’s a good song, yes, but...it doesn’t scream lead single.  Maybe we can toss it in the middle or something.”

Seymour blinked, incensed -- a rare mood, even for him.  He shot up out of the chair in an instant.  “Oh, come on!  We’re not playing the friggin’ VMAs!  You just don’t want something I wrote to get more attention than the crap you came up with!”

“You wrote one song!” Frank hissed.

“Well...uh...y-yeah, but….it’s a good song!  Damn good.  Just ask Irene, she’ll agree with me!”

Frank’s eyes fell on the distracted squirrel, who only muttered a mechanical “uh-huh” in response.

“Hey.  Squirrel!  The bar’s on fire!”  Frank cried out -- getting the attention of the staff wiping down tables in the back, each of them exchanging looks of annoyance with one another.

“Uh-huh.”  Another listless reply followed as she checked her messages, her voicemail, her social media, all on repeat.  It had already been two weeks, why wasn’t she replying?  Irene didn’t want to be a pest, sure, but the least Camelia could do was call, let her know she was alright, or alive, or anything --

“Hey!”  Frank’s paw came down flat on the table, palm-first, snapping Irene back to attention from the loud smack that followed.  Her tail frizzled as she looked up with shocked eyes.  “I’m so sorry that our band meeting is interfering with your precious Instagram obsession, but I’d like our first major publication to be a success, so could you kindly put your fucking phone away?”

The stare that Irene gave the tabby could kill.  He flinched back, as if avoiding a punch.

“I mean...if it’s not too much to ask,” Frank countered timidly, pulling back his sarcasm.  Irene, however, did as Frank asked, placing the phone on the table screen-down.  She didn’t have much of an incentive to keep checking, anyway.

“Okay.  Since you asked so nicely, I have two points.”  Irene lifted her hand, index and middle fingers raised, lowering the latter.  “First, I agree with Benson.  We have a lot of great songs, but it can’t hurt to play a couple of covers to show we’re multi-faceted.  They won’t make up a majority of the CD, and our own style will still come through.  We can open with Old School, lead into Neon Lights, and then go with Irene to set the mood before we break things up with a cover.”

Frank’s eyebrow twitched slightly at the suggestion of forcing a cover song into their line-up, but having a firm answer seemed to assuage him.  “Mr. Turner didn’t tell us we couldn’t cover a few classics.  Alright, you win.  I’ll brainstorm a few ideas --”

Irene cut the cat off, pointing her finger at him.  “And second, if you ever talk to me like that again, I’m dangling you off the Pavilion roof by that mangy tail of yours.”

Frank’s blood ran cold.  “But...only the building staff can access the roof --”

Irene grinned a devious smile, full of surprisingly sinister teeth.  “Who said anything taking the stairs?”  Frank swallowed hard; he could have sworn he saw one of the squirrel’s shirt buttons start to strain against her body as that grin only grew wider -- and scarier.  Seymour noticed the looks the squirrel and cat were sharing and cleared his throat to break the tension.

“I think we’re overthinking this, guys.  Totally my fault, but come on, this is supposed to be fun!  Tell you what, why don’t we take a break, cool our heads a bit.”

“I’m totally cool,” Benson said nonchalantly, still nursing his cocktail.  “Frank’s the one having a shitfit.”

“I am NOT --” Frank could feel his fur standing on end as his band mates each gave him a curious stare.  He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he adjusted his tie.  “Okay, maybe I’m a little stressed out.  Fine, then.  Take five, we’ll hash this out when we get back.”  He was quick to shuffle his way past the table and towards the bathroom, leaving the others to themselves.  Seymour, still on his feet, raised his arms to take a deep stretch.

“Guh, it’s way too early for this,” he muttered.  “I’m gonna wander.”

“I’ll come with --” Irene started, but Seymour waved his hand.

“Nah, it’s cool.  This is one of those ‘self-reflection’ kind of walks.  Just need to clear my head.”  Irene clicked her tongue once, but nodded.  “Don’t bore her too much, Benson.”

Benson clicked his beak, otherwise hiding his annoyance.  He took his half-full glass and stood up, wandering towards the back of the bar.  Before Irene knew it, she was all alone -- and if she was going to be alone, she’d at least get a damn buzz going first.

Fortunately, the bartender at the rear bar of Jazz At Night used the morning to handle cleaning duties as well as managing inventory, and was more than willing to give the band any libations they wanted, provided they didn’t use getting drunk as an excuse to slack off.  Today was Jessie’s turn behind the bar -- a young Siamese cat still learning the ropes.  She was a natural conversationalist, but wasn’t the best at handling her pours, usually going too heavy or too light on the spirits.  Today was the former, as she struck up a light conversation with the squirrel woman while pouring her a glass of Jack with a splash of cola, pouring more Jack than was necessary.  Irene sniffed the glass and winced; the odor brought back bitter memories.  Her mood soured further as she placed a couple of dollars down on the bar for the cat, which she accepted with a courteous smile.  Hopefully the old badger didn’t give her hell for burning through the hard liquor stock faster than she should have been -- she was sweet, and quite a looker, herself.

Irene felt at once upset and guilty.  Despite Frank’s attitude towards any sort of activity that required more effort than eating a sandwich, she couldn’t blame him for his enthusiasm -- or his frustration.  In the three years since they began to perform as a group, Revelation never once considered any kind of physical release.  That was originally Frank’s choice -- he believed that word of mouth and good performances were all it took to gather an audience.  In the days of the Internet, however, that couldn’t be further from the truth.  Even the big names had placed their names out there through social media, Youtube, whatever it took to get the exposure -- all methods Frank felt unnecessary, or in his own words, ‘required too much effort -- effort they could spend practicing, instead’.  Were it not for Mr. Turner’s insistence otherwise, Revelation would still be ‘that one cover band’ that thought they were too good for Facebook.

CDs, however, were still a thing, and people still purchased them -- and given their choice of genre, and the average age of the crowds that watched them play (pushing close to 40, by her estimation), having a CD of music they could call their own would still be a huge success.  More than that, it would be a badge of honor for her little crew -- a sign they were on their way to the big leagues.  Or as far as a smooth jazz band in the 21st Century could go, at any rate.

Irene was excited.  Truly.  Recording a CD sounded like fun, and she knew once they started recording, everything would fall into place.

Yet, none of that mattered to the squirrel right now.  All she wanted was to hear back from Camelia -- and she was still left in the dark on that front.  Irene had sent half a dozen text messages, minimum.  She hadn’t worked up the nerve to call her yet -- the last thing she needed was to have her call sent straight to voicemail, which she was quite confident would get deleted if she left one.

It had only been two weeks.  Why did it feel like two months?

“Hey.”

Irene looked up from her phone, noticing Benson leaning against the balcony wall.  She hadn’t even realized she stepped outside -- and the moment she did, the morning chill slammed into her like a brick wall, even with her coat on.  

“Benson!  Shit, you scared me!”  She placed her glass down on one of the balcony tables, looking over the railing and down at 16th Street below.

“Scared?  You?  Heh, never took you for the jittery type.”  He pointed at the squirrel’s phone with his free hand.  He wasn’t wearing a jacket himself, but if he was cold, he wasn’t letting it show.  “I don’t want to be one of those old farts that complains about kids on their damn cell phones, but I’ve never seen you so glued to your screen before.  Especially not during a band meeting.  You’re usually the chatty one.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being less chatty once in a while!  On occasion.”  Irene smiled warily; she thought Benson was nice enough, but they rarely talked much outside of practice.  She didn’t want to blame it on a generation gap, but at first glance, the crow’s grumpy, graying exterior made him seem unapproachable when he wasn’t behind a drum set.  Discussing her problems with him felt like trying to talk with her father -- a thought she didn’t want to dwell on any longer than it took to consider it in the first place.

“Uh huh.  Girl trouble?”

“Girl trouble?  Nah.  I mean, how do you know I’m even --” Benson gave the squirrel a knowing look.  “Oh.  Heh.  Right.  I mean, it’s not like I’m looking for advice or anything.”

The old crow chuckled.  “Heh. If you were asking me for that advice, you must be desperate.  But hell, let’s pretend you are asking.  I’ve been around the block a few times.  Not like we have anything better going on right now.”

Irene chuckled to herself in return, leaning back on the railing.  “Let’s just say I might have caused some irreversible damage in my budding relationship.”

“Ouch.”  Benson sipped on his gin.  “What did you do?”

The squirrel looked up at the cloudy sky above.  “I think I may have guessed someone’s personality all wrong.”

“Oh.  That kind of damage.  Ouch.”  Benson repeated his last exclamation as he pushed himself away from the wall, joining the squirrel woman on the railing.

“But that’s the thing.  It doesn’t feel like I screwed things up.  Hell, it felt like she led me along all this time, only to find out I had her pegged entirely wrong, and I’m trying to figure out how I screwed up so bad.”

Benson nodded his head once.  “Is she like you?  You know.  Giant.”  Irene nodded, blushing a bit underneath her brown fur.  “I see.”

“You’re the only person in this whole building that never wets his pants whenever I talk about size, you know.”

Benson let out a shrug.  “Maybe I’m getting too old to care that much, but you never struck me as the dangerous type.  Doesn’t matter if you’re six feet or sixty feet, you’re still you.  Except you’re more obnoxious when you’re large.”  The ends of his beak curled back, as if to smile.  Irene couldn’t help but laugh, giving the bird a nudge with her elbow.

“Okay, settle down, old crow.  Don’t strain those brain cells of yours.”

“Oh, I haven’t even warmed up yet.  But that’s not the point.”  Benson drained the rest of his alcohol, setting the glass down on the table next to Irene’s drink.  “Never did answer my question.  What did you do that got your girl so pissed off?”

“Well, aside from dragging her into a nightclub when she wasn’t comfortable with it, trying to take advantage of her good mood when my wing-man got her drunk, encouraging her to outgrow the building after she got drunk, and then making her feel guilty when she freaked out about it?  Can’t think of a thing.”

“Huh.  Yeah, can’t imagine why she’d be angry.”

“Benson --”

“I know, I know.  So you screwed up.  Just apologize.”

“I would, if she’d just tell me she got my text messages.”  Irene began to flip through those messages with a furious flick of her finger, all her own.  “I think she’s ignoring me on purpose.”

Benson watched the squirrel and shook his head.  “So instead of calling her and saying you’re sorry, you’re waiting for her to text you back,” he said sarcastically.  “Damn, these phones of yours are spoiling you kids rotten, I swear.”

“Hey, I just don’t want to come off like a stalker, okay?”  She chuckled darkly at the irony of her own words.

“Tell me something.”  Benson looked at the squirrel, his expression frank.  “Who’s the one in charge?”

“Excuse me?”  Irene raised her eyebrow, confused.

“Who’s the one in charge of the relationship?  Is it you or her?”

“What kind of question is that?  No one’s in charge of anything!  She’s allowed to do whatever she wants!  She’s a grown woman!”

Benson let out another sigh.  “I think that’s your problem.”

“Ben, I’m not going to control her, that’s...that’s just --”

“Exactly what you want, isn’t it.”  Irene hesitated to reply to the crow’s question at first; she didn’t want to sound callous or demanding, but there was no denying the truth in his words.

“Yes.  Fuck, you’re right.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that was a bad thing,” Benson remarked.  “This girl of yours, I’ve seen the behavior before.  They’re nervous about being themselves.  Not because they’re afraid of what everyone else will think, but what they’re afraid you’ll think.  They want to know it’s okay -- they just don’t know how to ask.”

“Huh.  Never thought about it like that,” Irene said.  She closed her eyes, leaning back with her arms folded over her chest.  “I mean, she did make a big deal about not being back at home a lot.  You think that’s a sign?”

“Oh, I’ve heard that one plenty of times,” Benson said with a wry chuckle and a clicking of his beak.  “You pushed her out of her bubble and she broke down.  You have to ease people into that kind of stuff, Irene.  Coax that side of them out.  It’s there, you just have to help them get there.”

“But I told her the bar was cool with people like us!”

“Just because you tell people that doesn’t mean they’ll believe it.  Your girl got big, yeah?  I bet if you made the first move, she’d have followed right behind you like a loyal little puppy.”

Irene let out a squeak at Benson’s choice of words, looking down sheepishly.  “Geez, did you have to say it like that?”

The crow let out a few squawks of laughter.  “Words are all I’ve got left, Irene.  That and my drum set.”  His tongue clicked as he lost himself in thought for a moment.  “What do you see in that girl?  I’m not being an ass, I promise.  Deep down, when you look into her eyes, what do you see?”

It didn’t take long for Irene to come up with an answer.  “A predator.  A girl that knows exactly what she wants and takes it.”

“Whoa.  That’s hot.”  Irene shot the crow a glance -- one he ignored.  “Okay, then.  Bring that side out of her -- on her terms.  Make her think that it was her idea all along.  You do that, and she’ll fall right into your lap.  Everything after that is Easy Street.”

“How do I do that, though?”

Benson shrugged.  “Hey, you’re the giant squirrel, here.  If you need my help on how to be a predator, you’re in deeper shit than I can pull you out of.”  He stood up, groaning a bit as the cold made his bones ache.  “Shit.  Every friggin’ winter gets colder, I swear.”

As the crow made his way to the door, Irene looked down at the crowds below, many of them gathering to make their runs for their morning coffee before going about their daily lives.  She mulled over Benson’s words briefly -- after all, what he was saying made total sense.  And Camelia did seem more comfortable in her own skin when they were in Pinewood.  But as confident as the Labrador was, there was no denying the thrill of finding a kindred spirit to share her thoughts and desires with -- or better yet, taming that spirit.  

Camelia knew what she wanted, sure.  But so did Irene.

“Hm.  Frank’s back at the table.  Looks kind of mad.  Guess that’s our cue to get back in there.”  Benson looked over to Irene.  “You coming?”

“In a minute.  Frank knows better than to piss me off.”  Irene grinned toothily.  Benson couldn’t help but laugh.  “You know, you never told me about your love life, Ben.  When did you get so wise?”

“I wouldn’t call myself that.  I’ve been married twice.  My second marriage lasted two months.  My first?  Twenty years.”

“Wow.  What happened?”

Benson closed his eyes, reminiscing.  His tail feathered twitched ever-so-slightly.  “My last marriage didn’t work out.  We weren’t right for each other, and we didn’t realize that until after the vows.  But Charlotte --” Benson’s eyes flew open as he mentioned a name out loud.  His eyes glazed over as his voice rose in pitch.  “Um.  I think the cold’s making my arthritis act up.  I’m gonna get inside.”

“Sure, Ben.  Thanks.”  Irene didn’t need to pry an answer out of the crow.  Instead, she raised her glass, the ice starting to melt, diluting her drink.  “Charlotte sounded like an amazing girl.”

Benson’s voice cracked -- it was subtle, but apparent.  “She was.  She really was.”  With that, the black bird slipped back inside without another word, leaving Irene along with her thoughts.  She upended the rest of the glass’s contents, habitually chewing on a half-melted ice cube.  She had grown accustomed to the cold, somewhat -- a consequence of being distracted, perhaps.

“Fuck it,” she said aloud at last.  She swiped her phone, dialing Camelia’s number.

“Hello?” A tired voice greeted Irene.  She bit back her hesitation.

“Hey.  It’s me.”

“Oh, hello.  Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice.”

Something about that comment made Irene wince.  Had she already forgotten her voice?

“No, it’s cool.  So, look about Tracks --”

“I’m sorry.”

Irene blinked, standing up from the railing.  “Hey, that’s my line.”

“No, it’s more than just that.  I’ve been so busy at work, and I thought you were angry with me, so I didn’t reply --”

“Well, I’m pretty sure that’s my fault.  I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.”

“I should have been more firm, but I didn’t want to disappoint you --”

“ -- and I screwed up,” both said in unison.  Irene blinked, then began to laugh into the receiver.  Camelia’s own laughter filled Irene’s ear.

“Jinx,” the squirrel woman managed to get out.  Camelia’s own laughter faded into a small, quiet giggle between breaths.

“Okay, you got me.  But seriously, thank you for calling.  I should have been more honest about going out that night.”

Irene smiled, crossing her feet at the ankles, tapping her boots against the cold balcony floor.  “It’s all good.  Say, you want to get together again?  No nightclubs this time, I want to do something more your speed.”

Camelia didn’t reply initially, hesitating.  “That’s nice, but you don’t have to go out of your way just for me.”

“Nonsense.  I like doing quiet things, too.  Milkshakes.  You in?  I know just the place.”

Another moment of hesitation, but her reply seemed more eager.  “That sounds fun, actually.”

“Great.  I’ll text the address to you.”  Irene peeked into the window -- right into Frank’s angry eyes.  He tapped his wrist in exasperation.  Irene rolled her eyes, using her free hand to give him a well-deserved one-finger salute.  “Ugh, I gotta go.  Frank’s getting on my case again.”

“It’s okay, I should get back to work myself.  Talk to you soon!”

“You too.”  The squirrel hung up first, letting out a slow exhale as she watched her breath come out in a foggy haze.

I know just what makes you tick, Camelia, even if you don’t see it yourself.  I’ll bring that predator out of you -- just you wait.