Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Four

The phone rang as though it was the bell at a fight telling me to get back in the ring for some more pummeling of my face. My eyes felt swollen shut from a deep REM sleep, my mind was a haze of disorientation, and the smell of the bar on my clothes made me nauseous. I somehow grabbed the phone and attempted to speak. I spoke.

"Yeah?" I said in a voice like gravel.

"Sammy? What a yummy voice."

It was Liz, my ex-girlfriend. We were in that "Let's be friends" stage, although she thought there was a chance in hell we'd get back together.

"Hey, Liz, what's up? I'm kinda sleeping."

"Oh, yeah ... what are you wearing?" Liz liked this game.

"Liz, it's too early for this shit."

"Too early? It's one in the afternoon."

"Oh." I peeked out the blinds. It was a beautiful day.

As I put the shade back down, I realized I had woken up from this magnificent dream about Kate Buckley gyrating on top of my grand piano as I played "Yankee Doodle Dandy." First of all, why that song? And secondly, if I had been so rude to her the night before, what was she doing in my dream—and, more importantly, on my piano?

"Did you play last night?" Liz interrupted my thoughts. "Or is that a leading question?"

"I guess you haven't heard. Ben died of a heart attack two days ago."

"Holy shit, Sam. Why didn't I know? Why didn't you call me? Oh my God ... How's Lisa?"

This was too much to handle at the moment. Liz was a real drain on me emotionally. "High-maintenance" would be a gentle description. She was the jealous, controlling type, and given that I was out late most nights playing in bars and clubs where women and temptation lie in wait, that put both of us in a tough position when we were dating. Not that I'd ever pursue any extracurricular activity, but nonetheless, at times one can't reason with the green-eyed monster.

At the same time, Liz is very gregarious and, well, perky, for lack of a better word. She's a bundle of energy who's wound so tightly that if something sets her off, like a chatty person sitting right behind her in a movie theater, something called "Hurricane Liz" occurs.

Shallow as it may seem, the best part about our relationship was the sex. And given that most relationships are devoid of any sort of decent sex, being that inhibition and boredom are driving the bus, our sex was very inventive: a plethora of positions, coupled with the odd places we performed those positions (like the carriage ride in rush hour down Michigan Avenue, or a confessional booth at St. Sebastian), seemed to keep things fresh.

Liz also has a very intense passion for life, which I think works both positively and negatively.

Positively because, as a rule, there seems to be another level of energy for passionate people like Liz. Like they've got more life available to them. As I try to define the difference between what I see in her and how I feel, I see it as a block in my system, as though all the cylinders aren't firing. Or to put it in terms of music, it's as though we're playing the same song, although I'm playing it without knowing all the chords, so as a result, it's just not as rich and lively as it sounds when she plays it.

But through her passion, Liz managed to open my eyes to a lot of what I had taken for granted. Namely, my music.

On the downside, her passion led to a lot of outbursts, which led me to "an old saying" I made up—"When you expect things, expect to be disappointed." It was almost always true.

After a while, I began to realize our relationship seemed to work on diminishing returns. Putting up with the volatile, controlling nature of Liz for a good, healthy sex life seemed not to be worth it. Eventually, I had to cut my losses.

But more than anything, the real problem with our relationship—and every other relationship I've had—was that she loved me too much.

It's a hang up I've got. Something I couldn't handle. Obviously it goes deeper than Liz, but unfortunately she's the one who got the short end of the rope, or stick, or whatever the cliché is.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you. I really didn't call anyone. Can I call you later?"

"I guess ... I just wanted to talk." She's also a master at keeping people on the phone longer than they wanted to be on. I found the remote under my pillow and turned on the TV. "It's kinda important. It's just that I've been missing you, and ..."

"C'mon, Liz. It's been seven months. I thought we agreed to move on." Beavis just shot a dripping wet spit-wad at Butthead.

"Damn it, Sam. I don't want to move on. I never did. It was your detachment and distance ... Never letting me in. Your indecisiveness and uncertainty about everything in your life except your relationship with Ben."

"I'm not having this conversation, Liz." I had to get off the phone; my head really hurt. "Oh, hang on, I have another call."

Call waiting—what a beautiful excuse. I paused and took a deep breath. A hot, sexy condom commercial came on the TV. Not really in the state of mind for that. I clicked the remote. The Weather Channel, perfect. I reconnected with Liz.

"I gotta go, it's Max. We'll talk later. I promise." Like a kid in grade school, I had my fingers crossed.

"OK. Tell Max I'll see him tonight. You're still playing aren't you?"

"Yeah. I gotta go."

"Bye, Sammy." After hanging up the phone, I learned that there were travel advisories on the Bear Tooth Pass, near Yellowstone. Living in Chicago, I'm not sure I really cared.