SAN FRANCISCO DAYS by CHRIS ISAAK. Story by Virginia Muzik

San Francisco, December 1996

The cute Latino on security at the music store slinks along the other side of the CD racks, narrowed eyes following me over the top shelf. Unnerved, my moves become stilted as I return covers to their place; self-conscious, avoiding eye contact. His presence makes me breathless with intrigue, wobbly with longing and I can’t walk properly, my rubber soled boots sticking to the stone floor, making me trip. Making a fool of myself. I’d noticed him on my first day working here, and now he’s nearby most times I restock the shelves, willing me to meet his gaze. I resist.

Leaving the store after my shift, he checks my bag. I know he does that to all the staff. Those dark, almond-shaped eyes cast his trademark sly, sidelong look my way. I bet you do that to all the girls.   

“What’s that look for?” I tease, aching to engage, while staying aloof.

“It’s my serious look,” he teases back, not breaking character.

“Well, lighten up!”

He cracks, laughing, patting me on the shoulder, his touch a live wire through me.

I tell myself I’m more amused than aroused. I deny the lure of his jet-black quiff, his full lips, smooth olive skin, velvety voice. But dammit, I’m drawn to those Mayan symbols that circle his arms, the dark blue jeans and white T-shirt suggesting a firm form underneath.

***

A few days later, just us in the break room, I mention I’ll be going back to Sydney soon.

“I’ll miss you,” he almost whispers. I tell myself he’s sincere.

“You don’t know me,” I scoff, self-protection kicking in.

“That’s what I’m trying to say …”

Oh, he’s smooth.

That night, it’s after-work drinks with the gang at a dive bar downtown. Eight of us squeezed around a table and he keeps asking me to stay.

“Give me a reason,” I shrug, holding his gaze, goading, joking.

“Because you don’t wanna go.”

Later, it’s six of us at a workmate’s one-room apartment, watching videos, drinking, talking. He and I sit on the bed, a purring cat between us. Kitty’s tail flicks against my thighs as he strokes one end, I stroke the other, our hands sometimes touching: poor kitty a conduit for the swollen energy between us.

***

 

Two nights after, it’s dinner with him in the Castro. Then, waiting for a bus to his place, he stands behind me, arms wrapping round my waist, his nose and cheek nuzzling my neck. Our quiet breaths billow into the December night chill and I inhale his sweet-scented hair.

In his room, I’m perched on the edge of his mattress, he’s on the chair at his desk, acoustic guitar across his thighs, a serenade brewing.

“Any requests?”

“Chris Isaak?” I ask, spying the CD spines on his bookshelf.

He strums the intro to Graduation Day and I just want him to put the guitar down, but I won’t make that move.

He swaps the guitar for a camera, snapping a shot of me before I can shield my face with my hands, and I’m cursing the pixie cut I got in London, the kilo I gained in Europe. How on earth could he want me, looking like this? Delaying the inevitable, we talk in twisted arcs about our guarded hearts, about me going home to help care for my ailing mother. Then he leans down, I crane up, and it is mouth to mouth.

***

Walking down on Market Street feeling my heart skip a beat /
To see someone that looks like you, I guess that I’m not through…

 

Three weeks later, I’m back in town after Christmas in Portland with my brother. My flight home is getting close, so I’m in the store to farewell the gang, nervous I might see him. Flipping through CDs, waiting to chat with my friends, I look up over the racks and there he is. We walk, on opposite sides, to the end of the rack and he motions me closer. Slowly, he leans in and our cheeks brush. I gently rub off a smudge of lipstick I’ve left on his neck. We make chit chat, then he serves me with: “We need to talk”. But not here, not now of course. I knew it was coming, know it’s for the best, but still it stings.

***

I still love you, I still want you, I still need you / Don’t hang up and say goodbye.

At our last meeting he’s closed off, frustrated, tells me quietly: “It’s not you, it’s the situation. And I’ve been screwed over too many times, and you’re leaving, so …”

So … I’m sitting on a rocky rise overlooking Ocean Beach, my last day here. I wonder if I’ll see a wet-suited Chris Isaak slicing through his hometown waves, when I realise, I’m a Chris Isaak song: fall in love fast, plagued by insecurities when it’s good, stricken lovesick when it ends. Forcing a fantasy that may never happen.

***

The year before, I’d met Chris Isaak in Sydney, covering his press conference for the uni student paper. As one of many autograph vultures hovering afterwards, I thrust my Filofax in his face, blank page ready.

“Write something in Spanish!” I gushed, unsure why I said it.

Taken aback, he flashed a chiselled smile, his baby blues fixing me intensely, and scribbled something before I was ushered away.

Later, I asked a uni mate what it meant: Es verdad – ‘It’s true’.

© Virginia Muzik

Stereo Story 640