A Song for Julia

me?
    Mark let out a chuckle and walked away.
    “All right, see you at four,” I said, looking at her eyes one more time.
    I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.

    Nice Guys Lose (Julia)

    I don’t know what I was thinking.
    Except that when the bassist came up and made the comment about not being Crank’s type, it got under my skin. But seriously, he is so not my type, even if the music was incredible. I’m a serious music snob. Eclectic taste, but I love punk, and over my parents’ strident objections, I’d taken every class Harvard has even remotely related to the music industry. This was good, but different, original. Something about that driving bass, and Crank’s voice overlaid throughout … gravelly, deep … melodic. A voice I could listen to all day. This was abnormal for me. I don’t go out with guys at the drop of a hat. I don’t go out at all.
    I had planned to go with some of the other organizers to an after-march meeting and help plan for the next one. And be available to talk to the press. But when he stumbled off the stage and ended up what felt like three inches away from me, I couldn’t say no. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t say no, because for the first few seconds, I couldn’t even breathe.
    This was so wrong. I wasn’t in Washington to meet guys. Especially guys who called themselves Crank, played guitar and probably did drugs. I was here because of a cause I believed in.
    But as he headed back to the band’s van, carrying his guitar and a heavy amplifier, I watched him walk away. And somehow I’d lost my enthusiasm for any more slogans. Stopping the war from happening was important, but did I think that was going to happen here? Not really. International ANSWER, a group that amounted to a known wing of the people’s workers’ party, had organized the march. My father would have a heart attack if he knew I was involved in this, given the organizers. But I hadn’t asked my father’s opinion. Ironically, my dad was in a position to do something about all this. But there was zero chance of that happening.
    So that’s how I found myself getting out of a cab at McPherson Square at four in the afternoon on a beautiful October day in Washington. Traffic wasn’t heavy, but there were a lot of pedestrians walking up the streets, many of them leaving the protest. I saw him immediately, sitting at one of the sidewalk tables that lined the front of the restaurant. He was relaxed, sitting back in his torn jeans, legs splayed out, with a drink in front of him. His black sleeveless t-shirt sported a flaming skull and revealed elaborate tattoos on both arms, and his hair was bleached almost white and spiked. Incongruous, seeing him like that, sitting at a table with a white linen tablecloth, sipping a drink.
    As I approached, he stood up.
    “Hey there,” he said. “I was worried you weren’t going to come.”
    I looked at him curiously. “Why is that?”
    He shrugged. “Strange guy asks you to lunch in a strange city …”
    I leaned my head a little to the right. “Well, you are strange, I’ll give you that.”
    He grinned and pulled a seat out for me—an unexpected gesture for someone who looked volatile and dangerous.
    “Let’s start over,” he said. “We were never introduced. I’m Crank Wilson.”
    “Julia Thompson,” I replied. “What’s your real name?”
    He chuckled. “My real name is Crank. It says so on my driver’s license. That’s all you need to know.”
    “Would it be wrong of me to ask what your parents were thinking?”
    “Julia’s kind of an old-fashioned name, isn’t it?”
    “I have old-fashioned parents.”
    “Me too, actually. So much so that I had to go to court to change my name.”
    “Why Crank?” I asked.
    “It fits, doesn’t it?”
    I sat back and looked at him. Studied him. Crank was about six feet tall, with angular features. Several tattoos crept down the length of his well-muscled arms, but they weren’t like any tattoos I’d ever seen. On the right side, what appeared to be a scroll engraved with musical notes rolled down the muscles to his elbow. His left arm, however, was tattooed with what appeared to be barbed wire, and had a nasty scar, three inches long, on his bicep.
    I could understand the urge to change your name. Change who you are. Disappear.
    “I suppose it does,” I said. “At least from first appearances.”
    The waitress approached, and I ordered an iced tea.
    He grinned as she walked away. “So