California, Brother

4.

Was I surprised Eric drove a Ram pickup? No.

Was I surprised he had harnesses and cross linked leashes in the bed for the safe travel of his dogs? No.

Everything about Eric very much spelled, 'I'm a single dad of two dogs in my late thirties.' What did surprise me though, and what I wasn't expecting to come across in his garage, was a DIY ceramics studio. Or as he would downplay, 'It's not a studio since I don't have an oven.'

'Why?' Not why do you not have an oven—that was rather obvious—but why this hobby?

He just shrugged, clicked open the garage door and stalked to his truck. 'Why not?' Once seated in the car and making our way down the driveway, he said, 'I got a little stir crazy a while back and stumbled across this ceramics shop in Hillside. The lady who owns the place offered me a free class. It was interesting, and I kept at it. I make whatever I feel like at home and take it to her and she fires them up and glazes them in the oven.'

'Is... is this a midlife crisis thing?' I was only half joking. Is this why you haven't been releasing music?

'You know, you can just ask if you want me to teach you.' A snarky comeback dangled on my tongue, but I suddenly remembered the large vases all over his home.

'Wait. Did you make those vases in your living room?' I asked. I could see the outline of a smile on his face. He rolled down the windows and put on his sunglasses. It was only around 9, maybe 10 in the morning, but you could tell it would be one of those record-breaking 100°-something August days, no clouds in sight. I leaned back in my seat, enjoying the caress of the breeze. 'Would you?' I asked, feeling possibility thread around my heart and tug on it with excitement. 'Teach me.'

'If you asked nicely.' He glanced at me. His crow's feet crinkled through his amber colored shades. 'Can you, is the better question.'

I couldn't explain it. Sitting there in his car felt like I'd been transported back in time, and simultaneously like I was a better version of myself. More at home in my body. Calmer about what I had to offer someone. More confident. Though none of that really mattered in that particular setting, I still had access to those memories of being alone in a car with Eric growing up, and the contrast I experienced fizzed through me like bubbles in a carbonated drink. I wasn't the same River anymore than he was the same Eric. Yet some things were painfully the same.

He teased and provoked me until I spilled all my sinful indulgences: Lana Del Rey, Toro y Moi, Robyn, Japanese Breakfast—just listing my "recently played" like a shameful confession. 'Please, don't chuck me out. You're going 70 on the highway.' I'd seen Eric do nearly the same to Samson after a disagreement over the top 5 guitarists of all time.

'I'm reformed,' he said. 'That was ages ago.'

'So you admit it then? That you and Samson were the biggest snobs on the planet?'

'It was all Samson. I wasn't nearly as hardline as he was—'

'Stop. I remember you running over,' I held up my finger, correcting myself. 'Reversing over, rather, a White Stripes CD he'd bought the same day. And you liked their music.' He veered his head my way, surprised.

Maybe I shouldn't have told him that. Stalker much?

'I only did that,' his words were slow, 'for shits and giggles. I honestly didn't even hold half of those opinions to heart, but Samson did and seeing the way something as minuscule as humming to Katy Perry could tick him off. God, what I wouldn't do to see that face again.' I laughed. I could almost hear it, Samson saying, 'turn that shit off,' and Eric cranking it up to spite him.