!November 25, 1995
Jasmira rifled through the cash envelope in the top drawer of the phone stand.
Shit. They were still $200 short on rent, just like they had been when she'd last added cash on Thanksgiving. She was hoping Victoria might have put more into it. They weren't supposed to touch the rent money, but more often than not she found less cash, not more, whenever she pulled it out. Yeah, she dipped into it for drinks or cigarettes once in a while, but that was twenty bucks here or there. Victoria needed to get her fucking heroin addiction under control.
She slammed the drawer shut. She would have to work tonight. It was the last weekend of the month—she was running out of time. She put on her matching red satin bra and underwear set, pulled the fishnet stockings onto her legs. She should have done more to set up paying gigs. The more paying gigs, the less she had to go out. But she was never good at that planning shit. Not like Alim was. Christ, that kid was new to the music scene but he was always hustling up spots. Still, he’d play gigs for “exposure,” and she wouldn’t. She could be making money during that time.
Black leather mini-skirt, low-cut red top that let the lace of her bra peek above the neckline, boots laced up to her knees, black choker, leather jacket. Heavy makeup, hair down. Men always wanted the hair down. She would go to Lake Street. She turned tricks around Zimmerman sometimes, but never more than one a night. You had to work harder, get someone interested in a bar or a club and then break it to him that he’d be paying for a room //and// for you if he wanted to take you out of there. Down on Lake, guys knew the expectations.
The last time she'd been out was two nights ago, Thanksgiving. Holidays were good for tricks. People got lonely and there were fewer girls out to compete with. But holiday tricks were depressing as hell. They wanted to spend time with her, chatting before or after. Sometimes skipping the sex acts altogether to talk about their shitty families or their bitchy wives. She charged these chatty johns hourly, not per act. She never got as good a return on her time that way. And it was fucking boring.
[[Head out|November 25 - Uptown Bar]] She parked her [[red Chevy Camaro]] near the Uptown Bar on Lake and Hennepin a few minutes before 10 PM. Management knew her there, appreciating that her presence attracted male customers. The bartender usually gave her a drink for free. She ducked inside, the familiar red glow of the place surrounding her.
But the lighting and the checkerboard floor weren’t the only points of familiarity tonight. The voice that reached her ears as soon as she walked in froze her in place.
What the fuck was Alim doing here?
Singing “Name” by the Goo Goo Dolls to a partially interested crowd. A few tapped their fingers on the tables. Most talked over him. He’d played this song on the jukebox [[that June night when they’d met|June 17, 1995]] as he teased her to tell him her birth-name. She still hadn’t revealed it. She would get her drink, then return to the street, make first contact with johns out there. He’d never know she'd been here.
The bartender brought her a bourbon, and she stood with it at the back of the bar. Despite her arrangement with management here, she’d never inquired about playing the stage. People in this neighborhood might recognize her from the street. She wanted her audience to see a musician, not a hooker, when she performed.
“Hey, how do you guys feel about hearing some new stuff?” Alim asked. A few people gave half-hearted claps of encouragement. “It's a little bit angry.” Alim’s eyes were on his guitar’s fretboard as he adjusted the capo. “Hope you don't mind.”
“[[Been trying to write a love song for a long time|See You Around]],” he began, tossing his shaggy black hair out of his eyes.
But it wasn’t a love song.
It was a whiny, entitled teenager’s fucked-up version of what had transpired the first week of September, when Jasmira told him they should take a break. For his own fucking good; Christ, he was only eighteen, way too young to deal with her shit. And did he have any idea how much money she lost, all the nights she spent with him rather than working? No, he wouldn't. What she did to make ends meet was one of the many things he didn't know about her. She never should have let it go on all summer. God damn that lopsided smile that pulled at her heart, those deep brown eyes that studied her face so intently no matter what stupid-ass thing she said.
When he got to the point in the song where he stopped short of calling her a whore, the few people in the audience who were paying attention whooped and clapped. It was such bullshit. She took a swig of her bourbon, glancing toward the door.
And also, not bullshit at all.
That was the part that made her face burn. Not with shame. Anger. Near the end of the song, his eyes scanned the audience and then stopped. He’d seen her. He skipped a beat, swallowed. Then returned to the mike for the final line, “God, if only I didn’t have to see you around.”
He nodded to acknowledge the scattered applause, then said, “Let’s close this out with something more uplifting.”
He played the opening chords of “Roll to me” by Del Amitri.
“Look around your world, pretty baby—
Is it everything you hoped it would be?”
//Not by a long shot,// Jasmira thought. A few people in the bar sang along. Jasmira finished her bourbon.
“Thanks so much, guys, you’ve been great,” Alim said as he strummed the last chord. He was snapping his guitar into the case, turning away before the crowd finished their modest applause. A couple young women stopped him to talk, and he nodded, smiled, then sort of jerked his head toward the back door as if he was in a hurry. They let him pass. He stopped once more to talk to the stage manager, then disappeared out the back.
[[Leave the bar|November 25 - Bus Stop]]Alim expected them to part on the second-floor landing, Jasmira heading down the hall to her apartment while he continued up another flight to his. Instead, Jasmira invited him to her place.
He hadn’t been to her apartment since the beginning of September. “Hey, Victoria?” Jasmira called, dropping her jacket on the floor. Alim set his guitar down while she bent, unlacing her tall boots. Then she walked to Victoria’s room, poking her head inside. Alim watched the movement of her calves in her fishnets, the way they tapered to her almost bare feet. He tore his eyes away.
Jasmira’s guitar case lay open beside the couch. A pinprick of anger disrupted his mounting desire. As if she’d never written a harsh song about some asshole who broke her heart. He’d heard her music. She had no right to judge him.
“Victoria’s not here,” Jasmira said, coming back to where he stood. She reached around him to lock the door.
That only meant one thing. His heart pounded like a bass line—insistent, steady.
She smirked.
He was already hard.
Before he could think better of it, he kissed her, spiking his fingers into her hair on both sides of her face. Her mouth opened, and his tongue found hers. She tasted like whiskey, something he’d only ever experienced mixed with the taste of her. They moved together toward the bedroom, him pressing forward, her taking steps back, leaving a trail of their clothes on the way—her red shirt, the lacy bra, his green sweater. The scent of her as he kissed her behind her ear—booze, cigarettes, something in her hair that made him think of a beach in the middle of winter. And the salty scent of sex. He could get lost in her every time.
He cupped her breasts with his hands, stopping against the door-frame of the bedroom. His hands couldn’t get enough of her warm skin, the curve of her hips. Pushing her back onto the bed, he unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down with his boxers. She rolled onto her side and pulled open the bedside table drawer, tossing him a condom. Usually he preferred her to unroll it onto his cock, but he didn’t want her to move. He wanted to keep drinking in the sight of her lying back on the bed, propped up on her elbows, topless with her black hair spilling around her. A part of him had thought he’d never see her this way again. Another part of him hadn’t accepted that it was over.
Maybe that part had been right.
Once the condom was on, he peeled her fishnets off. Her underwear came with them; they were made of some sort of shiny material and he briefly wished he’d taken time to notice them while they were on. Then he was shoving her skirt up around her waist, parting her legs with his hands, pushing himself into her. Hard. Fast. Thoughtless. She arched up, bit his chin and his earlobe.
He was close. Too close. He held himself still as she’d taught him to do when the end threatened to come too soon. He wanted her to come, too. He needed her to.
She knew how to get there. She continued to roll her hips; he closed his eyes as sweat beaded on his forehead. When she let out a long moan and he felt her body pulsing around his cock, he began thrusting again, and she was still shuddering when he came.
He collapsed onto her, his breathing heavy. Something rushed in to fill the space where the urgency had fled, something he had trouble naming. Was it guilt? Regret? Fear? Whatever it was, it felt vast and suffocating. She shifted beneath him, and he lifted himself away, standing to remove and discard the condom.
When he turned back, Jasmira had opened the bedside drawer again. This time she was fishing out her cigarettes and lighter. She lit up and took a long drag, let it out. “You know,” she said, “you’re kind of hot when you’re angry.”
But sex wasn’t supposed to be about anger, was it? It was different before, when he thought making love with her was part of building toward some future. But now …
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “What the hell just happened?”
Jasmira chuckled. “We fucked, kiddo. You remember this. It hasn’t been that long.”
He bent over his knees, putting his head into his hands. “But I thought we were … that you didn’t want to—”
“There’s such a thing as casual fucking, you know.” Behind him, she let out a long breath, and the scent of smoke tickled his nostrils. “We wanted it, so we did it. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
He turned to her. “I don’t understand you. You told me you don’t want to be with me—”
“I told you we should take a break. You were in over your head.”
“What, so the break’s over now?”
She shrugged. “Looks like.”
“I don’t get any of this. I care about you, we have fun together, you still want to have sex with me—so what’s missing? What’s wrong with me that you don’t want to be //with me//?”
Jasmira’s expression softened. “Nothing’s wrong with you, kiddo. I’m just not the girlfriend type.”
“What does that even mean?”
She looked him in the eye. “I don’t do monogamy. Haven’t since my first relationship. Which was a fucking disaster.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on the bedside table. “Besides, I’m into shit that no boyfriend wants to put up with.”
“Like what?”
Jasmira got off the bed, dug her underwear out from where they were tangled in the crotch of her fishnet stockings, and put them on. She pulled a white t-shirt out of a laundry basket at the foot of the bed and slipped into it. It was thin enough that her nipples showed through, which was somehow more distracting than if she’d stayed topless.
“The reason I was in Uptown tonight was because I was looking to fuck.”
“But you said you didn’t know—” Alim stopped himself. She had been looking to fuck. Not looking for him. They weren’t the same thing. “Right. Well, glad you found someone who fit the bill.” His voice came out tight.
“That’s the thing, Alim. You didn’t.” She crossed her arms, leaned against the closet door.
“Victoria and I are going to be short on the rent this month.”
What did that have to do with anything? Jasmira watched him, waiting. And then—but no, that couldn’t be what she meant. Yet, there was something transactional in the way she interacted with other men. A few weeks ago, he’d watched her on the sidewalk in front of Zimmerman from his window. He recognized the man she was talking to—bulked-up body and shaved head. It was the bouncer who always looked the other way when Jasmira brought him into Athena’s bar. They had both been gesturing with their hands, Jasmira shaking her head. He thought they were fighting, but she left with him anyway.
“Yeah,” she said. “I think you get it.”
Sweat broke out on his neck, under his arms. His whole body awash in something hot and unnameable. He gathered his boxers from the floor and put them on. Then his jeans. He left his sweater in the kitchen; he needed air on his skin.
“Why?” he finally asked her.
“Money.”
“Yeah, but there’s gotta be something else—”
“Right, because everyone is lining up to offer high-school dropouts high-paying, flexible jobs.”
He averted his eyes. He didn’t know she hadn’t finished high school.
“Listen, Alim.” She sat down beside him on the bed. “I can’t deal with some dick boss telling me what to do. With this work, I can pursue my music. I set my own hours, set my own rates. There’s not much else I can do that will net me fifty bucks in half an hour. And it probably won’t surprise you to know I’m good at it.”
He flinched.
“It’s not like what I do with them means anything,” Jasmira continued. “I can’t even remember them when it’s done. It’s just cash.”
“Then what about us? Does what //we// do mean anything?”
“See, this is why I don’t do relationships. I scrapped my whole fucking night to get to the bottom of this shit with your song, and all you can do is wonder how what //I// do affects //you.//”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
“I don’t let johns into my home,” she said, her voice even. “I don’t let them fuck me for free.”
“How much were you planning to make tonight?” He couldn’t look at her when he asked it.
“I was hoping for two hundred bucks.”
He drew in his breath. He wanted to know what two hundred dollars would entail, but he also didn’t. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket, removed the stack of folded bills. He passed it to her, trying to hold his hand steady. “All I’ve got is 175. One hundred fifty for the gig, twenty-five from tips and stuff in my guitar case.”
“Jesus, Alim. You don’t pay me for sex. I don’t want your fucking money.”
“It’s not for the sex,” he said. “It’s for ruining your plans. For getting in the way of your work.”
“No.” Her voice was hard. “I don’t want it.”
“I don’t like it, Jasmira,” he admitted. “I don’t like what you do.”
“Big surprise there.”
“It seems dangerous.”
“I take precautions.”
“I’m afraid you’ll get hurt. I’m afraid one of them will hurt you.” He reached out to touch her face, but she turned it away. He closed his fingers into a fist. This wasn’t about what it meant to him anymore, that he’d been sharing her with all these strangers and hadn’t even known it. He was thinking of her being alone in a room with a man who only saw her body. Someone muscular like the bouncer. Someone with some sort of sick, violent fantasy he wanted to enact on her.
“I’m fine, Alim. I’ve been doing this in one way or another since I was sixteen.”
His breathing felt constricted. “What about your parents?”
“Right, like they were going to do anything about it.” She rolled her eyes. “I was long gone by the time I started this. We’re not all from big, loving families. Reasonable parents. Concerned older sisters. That whole deal you've got going on." She twirled her wrist to encompass it.
Alim folded the bills and put them back into his wallet. “You’re right,” he said. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you.”
She shrugged. “Well, you were right, too. You can say whatever the hell you want in your music. That belongs to you, not me.”
Alim chuckled ruefully, reached for Jasmira’s hand and held it on his lap. “Yeah, well—” He ran the pad of his thumb under her palm, staring at the shine of her red fingernail polish in the glow from the kitchen light. “I’m never playing that song again.”
He brought her hand to his lips. “But [[I don’t think I’m done writing about you|Jukebox Love Song]].”
<h1 style="text-align: center;">See You Around</h1>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">A Zimmerman Studios Short Story</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">by Lacey Louwagie</h3>
[[Content warning]]
[[Author's Note]]
[[Begin story|November 25, 1995 - Jasmira - home]]This story is part of a collection of interconnected stories featuring residents of [[Zimmerman Studios]], a fictional artists' cooperative located in St. Paul. You can learn more about my Zimmerman Studios work at zstudioscoop.com.
''Acknowledgments and Disclaimers''
My sister Krystl Louwagie initially created the character of Alim. I use him with her permission, and I am deeply grateful to her for entrusting him to my care.
My friend Jenna K. Ingham's questions about Jasmira got me back in touch with a character I thought I was done with. This story would not have happened without months of text conversations. She has been my first reader and an enthusiast for these projects since I first disclosed to her what had been brewing in my mind for ten years. I'm deeply grateful for her love of these characters and her collaboration.
I have the good fortune of being married to the most brilliant software programmer I have ever met. That is a totally objective evaluation. My husband Ivan VenOsdel helped me with the thorny issue of encoding the audio into this piece. You can check out his pro-social software projects at ramblin.dev.
I am a much stronger writer than musician. Every word, characterization, and plot point was extracted from my own brain -- with the exception of Krystl's early character work on Alim -- without the use of AI. I also wrote the lyrics for the songs. However, I did use the Make Best Music AI software to generate the melodies and recordings. I did not arrange or record the music segments, although I do own the license to them.
This story series uses a combination of real-world and fictional places. All real-world places are used fictitiously. Any errors are my own or are intentional deviations to serve the story.
Thank you for spending time in this world with me.
''About the Author''
Lacey Louwagie spent six years living in an artists' cooperative that served as the inspiration for Zimmerman Studios. Now she lives in a house in a small town with her husband, kids, cat, and books, like lots of other boring people. When she's not writing, you can find her ... feeling annoyed about not writing.
[[Start the story|November 25, 1995 - Jasmira - home]]This story contains frequent use of profanity, alcohol and drug use, and a moderately explicit sexual encounter between consenting adults.
[[Start the story|November 25, 1995 - Jasmira - home]]
[[Author's Note]] en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zimmerman_Studios
!!Zimmerman Studios (ZS)
Zimmerman Studios was an artist’s cooperative in the West 7th St. Neighborhood of St. Paul, Minnesota. Named after Minnesota-native Robert Zimmerman, better known as Bob Dylan, ZS had a reputation for attracting musicians. ZS was a project of ArtPartners, a non-profit organization dedicated to acquiring and managing live-work spaces for artists of low-to-moderate income.
Originally built in 1909, the building served as a warehouse for Sunrise Grain Products until 1975. In 1982, ArtPartners purchased the abandoned warehouse. After two years of renovations, ZS began taking its first residents in 1984.
!Residential Spaces & Residency Requirements
The living space consisted of 36 residential units, including studio, 1, 2, and 3-bedroom apartments. At least one occupant of each residential unit needed to be a practicing artist, but earning an income as an artist was not required. Many ZS residents held full-or-part-time employment in other fields while also pursuing their art. The building qualified for low-income tax credits, requiring new residents to fall below a certain income range. However, residents were not penalized for increased income after residency was established. Non-artist roommates, spouses, or other family members often shared space with artist residents.
As a cooperative housing arrangement, all residents were required to put in monthly community hours in service to the co-op. These hours could include serving on committees, attending meetings, cleaning communal spaces, and supervising areas open to the public such as galleries.
The cooperative was managed by a nine-member board of directors comprised of residents, community stakeholders, and others.
!Community Spaces
ZS featured community spaces for use by residents as well as the general public. These spaces included:
* A performance space utilized by musicians, community theaters, and other performers
* An art gallery with rotating exhibits
* An industrial kitchen and dining hall
* Community lounges on every floor
* A recording studio
* Conference and meeting spaces
West 7th Street Community Theater operated out of Zimmerman Studios from 1992 to 2009. The nonprofit Midwest Music managed the recording studio and produced many Zimmerman residents’ early work.
!Closure
In the mid-2000s, ZS began to struggle with keeping its units full. Economic realities forced the property to raise its rent to its upper limits while federal low-income housing guidelines prevented starting income requirements from rising accordingly. Affording rent became a challenge for many new and current residents. This struggle was compounded after the economic recession spurred by the 2008 housing crash. Many artists who lost their “day jobs” or who were already underemployed left the cooperative. NextDay Developers, a Midwestern development company, had made several offers to purchase Zimmerman for conversion into boutique condos beginning in 2005. In January 2009, the board of directors voted to accept an offer of $2.8 million from NextDay, and all remaining ZS members were required to move out by the end of March 2009.
West 7th Street Community Theater and Midwest Music contracted with NextDay to continue using space in the building during the transition. NextDay began selling luxury upscale condos in the converted building in 2013, with renovated units fetching upwards of $200,000 each.
!Notable Residents
Notable past residents of Zimmerman Studios include:
* Isolde Karimi Atallah, journalist (resident 1995 - 2002)
* Deshon Beast, horror novelist (resident 1996 - 2009)
* Tori Chelsea, indie folk musician (resident 1999 - 2002)
* Jasmira Juhl, indie alternative rock musician (resident 1995 - 2003)
* Alim Karimi, alternative rock singer/songwriter (resident 1995 - 2005)
* Talia Stellano, Grammy-winning songwriter (resident 2000 - 2001)
* Lyla VanGuilder, YouTube personality, Lyla Out Loud (resident 1999 - 2003)
[[Return to Author's Note|Author's Note]]
[[Start the story|November 25, 1995 - Jasmira - home]] She left out the front, abandoning her empty glass at the bar.
By the time she was out on Lake St., Alim was loping across the intersection toward the bus stop. She followed him without checking the traffic, which earned her a few irritated honks and at least one raised middle finger. She raised hers back.
He stood at the bus stop on Hennepin and Lake, looking pointedly away from her.
She came up beside him. “What the fuck was that, Alim?”
“I didn’t expect you to be there tonight.”
“Yeah, well, maybe if you can’t say that shit to my face, you don’t need to be saying it at all.”
He turned toward her then, his cheeks red from the wind. “You know what, Jasmira? You don’t get to tell me what to feel, or how to express it. We’re not together, remember? You don’t want to be with me, fine. That’s your choice. But I’ll do whatever the hell I want with my feelings about you.”
Jasmira shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “Fair enough.” It was the first time he’d stood up to her, and it surprised her. “But you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I wonder why that is.” Alim gestured toward the busy street as if the answer were out there. “You haven’t spoken to me in months.”
“There's nothing left to say.”
“Well, I guess we disagree on that.”
Jasmira glanced down Hennepin. “When does this fucking bus arrive, anyway?”
Alim sighed, and his breath made a little cloud in the air. “Ten minutes.”
Jasmira laughed. “But you were in such a hurry to get out of there.”
He scowled but didn’t meet her eyes.
“OK, kiddo. My car’s just down the street. I’ll drive you home.”
“No, I can wait.”
She shrugged. “Fine. Freeze your balls off for all I care.” She turned and walked toward her car.
A few seconds later, she heard footsteps behind her. She smirked but didn’t look back. When he caught up with her, she said, “Changed your mind?”
“It’s fucking cold out here.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
She unlocked the trunk of her car for his guitar, opened the passenger-side door, then got into the driver’s seat. Neither of them spoke as they buckled their seat belts. She pulled into traffic. Finally, Alim said, “What were you doing in Uptown, anyway?”
“Needed a change of scenery. I was as surprised to see you as you were to see me.”
Alim looked out the window. “It’s not like anyone knew the song was about you.”
Jasmira cranked up the heat. “I guess this is what I get for fucking a musician.”
“Oh, like you’ve never fucked a musician before.”
“Not one as ambitious as you. Not one who would immediately turn around and write a shitty song about it.”
Alim winced. Then he asked, “Did you really think the song was shitty?”
Jasmira chuckled despite herself. He was so goddamn obsessed with his music. He wasn’t going to apologize, he was going to try to get her opinion on the song.
“I don’t know, kid. It was kind of hard for me to be objective about it.”
Alim nodded thoughtfully. “I can probably do better.”
She smiled. “Yeah, you probably can.”
[[Head back to Zimmerman Studios|Jasmira's Apartment - Alim]] <audio src="https://stunning-snickerdoodle-6aa253.netlify.app/audio/see-you-around/See-You-Around-by-Alim-Karimi-Rough-Take.mp3" controls></audio>
''See You Around by Alim Karimi''
(played live, never recorded)
[verse 1]
Been trying to write a love song for a long time
Write about your eyes, your lips
Feel of my hands on your hips
Can’t find the rhyme
Can’t make the pieces fit
Now I know—it’s because you don’t deserve it
[chorus]
I was ready to make this last
But you threw me out
Faster than yesterday’s trash
Guess one man’s not enough for you
Then again, neither is two
Seems to be no end to who you’ll screw
They all say I’m better off now
Just wish … I didn’t have to see you around
[verse 2]
Don’t think I haven’t seen you out on the street
Looking so good, looking so hot
Thought you were special—you’re not
First guy you meet,
You’ll be leaving with him
And watching you turn away makes the room go dim
[chorus]
I was ready to make this last
But you threw me out
Faster than yesterday’s trash
Guess one man’s not enough for you
Then again, neither is two
Seems to be no end to who you’ll screw
They all say I’m better off now
Just wish … I didn’t have to see you around
[verse 3]
Well, if this is love, I think I’ll have to pass
Worth less than your cigarettes
Guess what? You’re my first regret
Gone in a flash
Could try again someday
If what I feel for you doesn’t get in the way
[Bridge]
If I meant nothing to you
Why did you keep coming back for more?
Saw a future together, but you slammed that door.
Starting to think you might just be a … [pause/beat]
You know,
[chorus]
I was ready to make this last
But you threw me out
Faster than yesterday’s trash
Guess one man’s not enough for you
Then again, neither is two
Seems to be no end to who you’ll screw
They all say I’m better off now
Just wish … I didn’t have to see you around
God, if only
I didn’t have to see you around.
[[Return to November 25|November 25 - Uptown Bar]] !June 17, 1995
Jasmira ignored the new resident standing in the mailbox bay. When she opened her box, he said, “Ah, so you’re Jasmira.” He pronounced it Jas-MEER-ah.
She glanced at him. Young. Shaggy black hair, prominent eyebrows, dark brown eyes. Black t-shirt, faded jeans. “It’s Jas-MUHR-ah.”
“Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never heard it pronounced that way before.”
Her mailbox was empty. “You’re the first person I’ve met who’s ever heard the name at all.”
“Yeah, it’s a variation on Jasmine. Not very common. You’re the first Jasmira I’ve actually met.” This time, he pronounced her name the same way she had.
“So you’re some sort of name expert?”
He smiled, shaking his head. “No. I just notice Persian names. There aren’t many of us around here.” He paused, as if waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, he asked, “What’s your background?”
Loaded question. “My mom was Filipina. My dad was an uptight white dude. I was born here.”
“Where’d they get the name?”
She slammed the box door and relocked it. “They didn’t. I did.”
The man leaned against the mailboxes, crossing his arms. “What, you named yourself?”
“Yeah. I can do a lot of things myself. Come out for a drink with me and I’ll tell you about it.”
“Oh.” He straightened. “I’m not twenty-one.”
Jasmira studied him. Medium build, his shoulders filled out. Nice arms, muscled in the way of men who moved hay bales or worked construction, not the showy bulk of someone who spent hours at the gym. “OK. You’re not like, twelve, are you?”
He laughed. “I’m eighteen.”
“Great, you’re all grown up. I know a place where they probably won’t card you.” She smirked. “But we could go for milkshakes if you prefer.”
“I’ll go for drinks. Just let me run back to my room for some cash.”
[[Head out|June 17, 1995 - Athena's Bar]]
They reconvened at Zimmerman’s west-side entrance five minutes later. Jasmira had changed into a short black skirt and a shimmery purple top and grabbed her purse. She wore her high black boots—more comfortable for walking than heels. Athena’s was only a few blocks away—Jasmira had walked it dozens of times since she moved in two months ago. The sunset bathed the sidewalk in hues of orange and lavender. Jasmira said, “So, how did you know I wasn’t Victoria?”
“Victoria?”
“My roommate. Her name was on the mailbox, too.”
“Oh, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, um, didn’t really care which one you were. I just knew I wanted to talk to you. But before that, I //did// notice your name on the residence list. And I wondered who it belonged to. If you had been Victoria … I don’t know what I would have found to talk to you about.”
Athena’s bar stood wedged between a Chinese restaurant and an adult video store. Chuck was on duty as bouncer, which was good. She’d fucked him a few times; he lived above the video store. He didn’t ask for her ID. She gestured toward her companion. “This one’s with me.”
He waved them in.
“Wow,” the man said. “That was easy.”
“I know the right people.” Most of the booths were empty, the early drinkers clustered around the bar. They sat near the jukebox at the back of the room. “What do you want?” Jasmira asked.
“Whatever you’re having. Here.” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and handed Jasmira a twenty. She brought it to the bar and ordered two Coronas. Whiskey was her usual, but she didn’t know if this kid could handle hard liquor.
She set one of the beers in front of her new friend. He took a swig and grimaced, then tried to hide it. Jasmira laughed. “Shit, I think I just corrupted you.”
He grinned. “Corrupted me?”
She gestured at the beer. “You’ve never drank before, have you?”
“It’s good,” he said.
“It’s an acquired taste,” she said.
“Well then, I’ll work on acquiring it.” He leaned forward, his eyes eager. “Tell me about your name. Are you running from the law or something?”
Jasmira touched the toe of his black sneaker with the toe of her boot. “Would that scare you?”
He shifted, noticing the touch. “Depends on what you did. Maybe if you murdered someone.”
“My crimes are far less exciting.” She started peeling the label off her bottle. “Providing alcohol to minors. That sort of thing.”
“I’m not technically a minor,” he said, suppressing a smile. Then, “Your name.”
“//You// got a name, kiddo?”
“Alim,” he said. “My parents picked it. Boring stuff.” He waved his hand. “You’re supposed to be telling me //your// name story.”
She took a drink. “It’s not that exciting. I started doing performance work and the name my parents chose wasn’t right for it.”
His eyes lit up. “What kind of performing?”
“I’m a musician.”
“Wow, so am I.”
“Imagine that. Another musician living in a cooperative known for attracting musicians.”
He tucked his chin for a moment, embarrassed. Then he said, “What do you play?”
“Grew up playing piano. Learned guitar about five years ago.”
“Just guitar,” Alim said. “You write your own music?”
“That’s the whole point.”
“I agree.” He took another swig of his beer. His expression didn’t change this time. “My younger sister Jamie plays piano, too, and I’m teaching her guitar. She lives with me. My sister Leila plays drums. But they’re both still in high school.”
“Oh, and you’re not?”
He laughed. “Come on. I graduated, like, three weeks ago.”
It was so easy for him to say. As if it was something everyone did. “Heading to college?”
He shook his head. “I really just want to focus on my music.”
“The money’s shit.”
“I work days at Music-Go-Round. You should come in sometime.” He grinned. “I’ll restring your guitar for free.”
“Well, now look at who’s got the connections.” She raised her bottle to him.
He tapped his fingers on the table. “Are you going to tell me your birth name or what?”
She leaned back. “Depends. What kind of juicy secret can you offer me?”
He spread his hands. “I’m not the kind of guy who has secrets.”
She crossed her arms.. “Sorry. I’m not entering into this unequal exchange.”
“Will you dance with me, then?”
[[Dance|Athena's Bar - Dance]]
The request surprised her. “Sure.” She drained her beer, left it on the table, walked the few yards with him toward the tiny dance floor. He crossed to the jukebox, flipped through the selections, then dropped a couple quarters into the slot. The opening guitar riff of “Under the Bridge” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers flowed out of the speakers.
“OK, your taste isn’t bad,” Jasmira said. This earned her a pleased smile. He held out one hand for hers, then placed his other on the small of her back. When she moved closer, he didn’t take a step away.
“We should play together sometime,” he said.
“Oh, I bet you’d like that.”
He averted his eyes for a moment at the suggestiveness in her tone. But then he turned back to
her. “Yeah,” he said softly, “I would.”
The bar began to fill as the restaurants and movie theaters in the neighborhood closed, sweaty bodies pressing around theirs on the dance floor, newcomers eying their empty booth with the beer bottles still on the table. Alim fed more quarters into the machine and selected “Name” by the Goo Goo Dolls. He grinned mischievously at her as they danced, slightly apart. He leaned in and sang into her ear, “And I won’t tell no one your name.”
“Ha ha. Nice try.”
He laughed and took a step back.
They danced to a few of the other customers’ choices. A country song featuring a tractor, a cheesy pop ballad about eternal love. Jasmira went for a second beer and Alim exchanged a few dollars for more quarters and kept feeding the jukebox. He placed the last two in Jasmira’s palm. “You pick one.”
She sauntered to the jukebox and selected Juice Newton’s “Angel of the Morning.”
He nodded. “Nice.”
She drained her beer, leaving the empty bottle on the jukebox. She put her head on his shoulder and let those good arms circle her, the hands clasped behind her back. He smelled like Ivory soap and a sweat, a hint of something spicy. His embrace felt safe. Almost familiar.
When the song ended, she said, “You got a curfew?”
“No. But Jamie might worry. And I’m out of money.”
“Probably time to call it a night, then.”
[[Return to Zimmerman Studios|ZS Entrance]]They walked back to Zimmerman, the streets dark and silent, a cool breeze stroking Jasmira’s skin.
“So.” Alim bumped his shoulder against hers. “Now that you’ve had a few—care to tell me your name?”
“Takes more than that to get me drunk.” But she walked closer to him than she had on the way down. Her arm brushed his. Sometimes their fingers touched, lingered. Her body felt loose in a way that surprised her. Usually interactions with new men felt like a performance. She’d chalk it up to the booze but two beers was nothing.
They returned to the steps leading up to the glass doors on Zimmerman’s westside entrance. Alim grabbed Jasmira’s hand just before she ascended.
“Wait,” he said. When she turned, he caught her against his body. Just a flicker of hesitation before he kissed her. Not too aggressive—the brushing of their lips not so different from the way their fingers kept brushing on the walk home.
Damn, this kid was young, but he was bold. She leaned into him, deepening the kiss. He tasted like the beer he finally finished. She could ask him up to her room. But who knew what state Victoria was in. And she’d have to see this guy in the hall and at meetings and at the mailboxes for months or even years to come. For the first time, she’d found someplace she wanted to stay long-term. That’s why she’d never considered fucking someone who lived in the building.
Probably best not to get too entangled.
She pulled away. “Goodnight, kiddo,” she said. “See you around.”
[[Return to November 25, 1995|November 25 - Uptown Bar]] <audio src="https://stunning-snickerdoodle-6aa253.netlify.app/audio/see-you-around/Jukebox-Love-Song-Lyric-Revision-2.mp3" controls></audio>
''Jukebox Love Song by Alim Karimi''
From //My Secret is You// (2005)
[verse 1]
Saw you at the mailboxes
Down the hall
Got your number
Too afraid to call
But I knew nothing would ever be the same
From that moment I first heard your name
[verse 2]
I had barely turned eighteen
That June night
Got into the bar
‘Cause you knew this guy
Now you’ve given me my first taste of beer
And I can’t even believe I’m here
[Chorus]
You were a little bit older
Just a little bit dangerous
It made me feel bolder
Tonight everything could change for us
Don’t tell me if I’m wrong
Let’s just play another jukebox love song
[Verse 3]
Got us a booth in the back
Just us two
Wanted my secrets
My secret is you
But the secrets you have you’re going to keep
I just met you but I’m in too deep
[Chorus]
You were a little bit older
Just a little bit dangerous
It made me feel bolder
Tonight everything could change for us
Don’t tell me if I’m wrong
Let’s just play another jukebox love song
[Verse 4]
Play Angel of the Morning
It’s your song
Be my angel
Hold me all night long
And the morning doesn’t have to mean goodbye
Why don’t we give this love thing a try?
[Chorus]
You were a little bit older
Just a little bit dangerous
It made me feel bolder
Tonight everything could change for us
Don’t tell me if I’m wrong
Let’s just play another jukebox love song
[Bridge]
Two weeks later I was in her bed
And I ain’t never gonna get her out of my head
[Chorus]
You were a little bit older
Just a little bit dangerous
It made me feel bolder
Tonight everything could change for us
Don’t tell me if I’m wrong
Let’s just play another jukebox love song
[outro]
Play another jukebox love song
Don’t you know this is my
Jukebox love song.
//End//
[[Return to the Beginning|Title Page]] !March 1990 to July 1991
She had fucked a car lot owner for more than a year to get the car. Underage sex in return for monthly car payments, the title in her name. Victoria had gotten her into it. She hadn't meant to hand Jasmira over like some sort of sacrifice, just suggested they'd be willing to engage in "alternative" methods of payment.
It started in Mallory's office at the lot. "Her," Mallory had said, nodding toward Jasmira.
Days after the title came in the mail from the bank, Victoria and Jasmira fled Chicago, making their way to Victoria's hometown of New Orleans. Victoria thought maybe she could get clean there. Jasmira was finally eighteen; she had a car; she and Victoria had each other's backs. From here on out, she'd call the shots.
[[Return to November 25, 1995|November 25 - Uptown Bar]]