“I’ll have what he’s having.”
“You’ve got good taste,” James said as the bartender walked away.
“I have a feeling you do, too,” Allen joked. “So, are you excited for the show today? You’re here early.”
James shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. It should be good. I also woke up too late to surf and I didn’t want to do yoga with goats, so here I am.”
Allen laughed. “That’s some definite white girl shit.”
They made small talk about the show that day until Allen’s drink appeared, then they toasted one another and each took a long drink.
“So, let me guess, you’re a model, right?” Allen asked.
James almost said no, but paused. He could be a model now, if he wanted. He could be anything he wanted, why limit himself?
“Yeah, I am.”
“I knew it,” Allen said. “Everyone here is a model.”
“Are you a model?”
“Me?” Allen put a hand to his chest. “No.Iam a graphic designer. It’s hard work, you know? I mean, I’m sure your work is hard, but you know, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth or nothing.”
James felt a rush of warm, indignant anger rise in his chest, followed by embarrassment. That was one of the exact reasons that he never became a model. He had good genetics, sure, but he strove to be more than just attractive.
“Will you excuse me for a second?” James asked.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Allen said.
“It’s fine,” James said, taking his drink with him and walking out of the bar. He ensured no one noticed him leave and then got out of the eyeline of the bar before turning right back around. Allen played with his phone on the bar top when James returned. When the man saw his new neighbor, he smiled.
“You’ve got good taste,” he said, nodding to James’ drink.
James picked up his glass. “Cheers.”
They both took a drink, and James asked, “are you here alone?”
“Uh, right now I am, but my friends should be meeting me here soon. I always get up when the sun does, I can’t help it. They’ll probably sleep through the first three acts, though.”
James nodded, commiserating. “Are your friends all models like you?” he asked. Old James would never have dared using someone’s own neg against them, even if they couldn’t remember giving it, but James felt himself transforming into someone he didn’t recognize, and he liked it.
Allen laughed. “No, we’re not models. I’m a graphic designer and they all do,” he waved his hand, “whatever.”
“Oh, graphic design, that’s very cool.”
“I like it. It’s what I went to school for, so at least I’m using my degree for something.”
James nodded. “Yeah, that’s more than some people can say.”
“What do you do?” Allen asked.
“I’m a music journalist,” James said with confidence. He’d been investigating the island, hadn’t he? He’d figured out all of its secrets. Why couldn’t he be a journalist?
“Really?” Allen asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Yeah, yeah. I think that’s probably why I got invited here. I do music reviews, artist interviews, things like that. Mostly freelance stuff, but I’ve also written for Pitchfork and the Rolling Stone.”
James made it up as he went, and Allen hung onto his every word.
