The Wages, An Illustrated Story | 23. Songs and Parables | Interwoven Curves

I liked to hear about her life. The golden retriever named Hector that she had as a child, and her descriptions of the beauty of the Kingston, Ontario landscape she grew up in. How she had liked math better than other subjects, and related that to music.
She would tell of her time discovering herself as a young lesbian; both the joys, and the emotional—and physical—threats she had faced. She had been out at an age where I was still struggling with my internal life, but it was tough for her.
Once three young bashers had surrounded her and a girlfriend, and one of the guys punched Joanne hard in the stomach. One said, “Oh shit sorry! We thought you were two guys!” as if a little Canadian politeness made any kind of queer-bashing OK. They fled while she shook and cried down on the sidewalk. She thought it was guys from out of town, and it could have been much worse, but it was enough to scare her friend out of their relationship.
When she was in high school, she was groped by an acquaintance who claimed he was trying to “just get friendly and fix her.” This guy was popular, so many people accepted his flat-out denials when she dared to float a few complaints to friends, and their dismissive responses made her feel like shit, and she backed down, but she did notice their wariness of him afterward.
She had been shoved into snowbanks more times than she could count, and was the topic of endless unfounded rumors. I admired her for trying to find ways of standing up for her self through everything, and how even when she was tempted to let go of who she was, she always came back to her self, and her truth.
I loved her love of Elvis and Charles Mingus, and how she related to their sense of differentness, and thought, or at least hoped, there might be a little of both of them in her.
She was interested in my stories, and sympathetic, and kind. We hadn’t had a heart-to-heart about things for a while, and I wanted to prompt her into talking with me.
She was smart, and she was so good looking. And what a bass player. She could do this beautiful jazz stuff I couldn’t even understand. Musically, I thought she was slumming with me; while I chugged away in major and minor chords, she could play elegant jazz circles around me on her bass if she wanted. She could even do the jazz things on an electric bass, which is the instrument I like for my backing. When she played, she would get this look on her like she was desperate and satisfied at the same time. It was hot. I had never had this kind of musical, and love, and sexual relationship all in one before. This was something good in my life right then, and I felt it needed checking in on.
But my mind had to return to the work ahead.
