Cherry Land Chapters

Illustration by Nik Garvoille

Dustin glides his fingertips over the guitar strings. The heat and damp of sweat spreads over his shoulders as he softly lets out lyrics penned days ago. Where in the world did you go? I don’t know, I don’t know. Amber was supposed to be at his side. Amber was supposed to sing along, echo the lyrics.

A platter of carrot cake muffins and a pitcher of water sit beside the open mic sign-up sheet. Dustin scribbled ‘Dustin and Amber’ on the last line, then sent a text: ‘We’re on in a few. Get here!’

“Dustin, sit down. You’re making me tense,” said his father, running a callused hand over his gray ponytail. His mother’s rings clinked as she wiped her glasses clean with the hem of her burgundy sweater, “She must have got caught up with something – lost track of time or fell asleep. She’s a good friend. She wouldn’t just abandon you.”

‘Seriously, get here,’ Dustin sent another text.

Finally, he gripped the neck of his guitar, inhaled and began to sing on his own.

Katie sits at a Parisian chair, winding an indigo scarf around her long white hands while Tyler’s straight-rimmed cap bobs along to the beat of the song. A few of Dustin’s familiar coffee shop customers make up the sparse audience: Allen, the antique book collector with frazzled white hair; Margo and Bill, aspiring nature fanatics who explore the Door County parks and shores with vanilla lattes in hand. Amber should be here. Susanne, Amber’s fellow waitress, sips a mug of tea while her two children drink hot chocolate topped with whip cream. Amber was supposed to be here.

•••

Dustin scans a freezer door at the Piggly Wiggly, a six-pack of Spotted Cow begins to weigh heavy on his gloved fingers. Tombstone? Jacks? DiGiorno? He rubs the front of his cap against his itchy forehead.

“Can I ever go here without running into someone I know?” asks Amber, walking towards him with a smile.

“She lives,” mumbles Dustin. He wraps an arm around Amber’s shoulder, squeezing the soft, puffy down of her teal coat. Johnny Mathis croons from the speakers. Someone wants to kiss you and hold you tight.

“I’m mulling over the pizza selection,” he says, propping the six-pack in the crook of his elbow, thoughtfully rubbing his beard. She laughs. He peers in her blue plastic shopping basket: large pasta shells, three packages of Ricotta cheese, a green pepper, Ragu spaghetti sauce. “Pasta night?”

“I just need some Texas toast.”

“You know there’s like 800 calories per piece?”

“Thanks for looking out for my figure.”

“I’m kind of mad at you,” Dustin bites his lower lip, opens the freezer and pulls out a deluxe Jack’s pizza. Someone wants to say hello; I know he’ll never let you know.

“I just – stage fright.”

“Not what I heard.”

Amber exhales. Dustin notices a splotch of foundation over a pimple on her forehead, scrunched in thought, then the bottle of Sutter Home Merlot beneath a generic bag of mozzarella cheese in her basket.

“He’s supposed to pick up the wine by the way,” Dustin closes the freezer door.

“You’re a dating expert?” Amber forces a laugh.

“Amber, I know this guy. I went to school with him. He likes tractors and country music and hunting. He will never, ever leave this place.”

“Maybe I won’t either.”

“He is not…you.”

•••

Weeks after leaving the Madison campus, settling into the apartment above his parent’s garage, Dustin stepped cautiously down the familiar rickety wooden steps to Tyler’s basement, guitar in hand.

“The ladies love me,” said a brown-haired boy in cargo shorts perched at the edge of a worn blue couch. “I put a few extra cherries in their Old Fashions and bam – love.”

“Schmoozer,” smiles the girl leaning against him, wearing a lemon-colored sundress, the same color of her hair.

“Schmoozer? I’m a salesman,” he removed the cigarette hanging from his lips and pressed his forehead against hers.

“Guys, this is Dustin,” said Tyler. “This is Martin and Amber.”

“Hey man,” cigarette smoke spilled from Martin’s lips. Amber raised her can of PBR.

“A musician, sweet,” Martin pointed to Dustin’s guitar then rested his elbow on Amber’s tan knee.

“Aspiring,” said Dustin. Tyler handed Dustin a beer.

“I’m feeling good about this,” said Martin. “Magic. This will be magic. You live up here?”

“Grew up here, now live up here. I just graduated from Madison.”

“With what?” asked Amber.

“Philosophy,” Dustin sat on a dusty recliner, set his beer on a coffee table littered with empty bottles of Bud Light, cans of PBR, and an ashtray stuffed with crooked cigarette stubs.

“Deep, man. What do you do?” asked Martin.

“I’m a barista,” Dustin laughed, “a walking cliché.”

Dustin and Martin set the guitars over their knees, played some standards – Bob Dylan, Rolling Stones, Beatles – while Amber hummed and sang along, a sheen of sweat gleaming over the bridge of her freckled nose.

•••

The winter air assaults Dustin as he follows Amber in the dimly lit parking lot. She struggles to place the paper bag in her backseat.

“I’m sorry,” he sets his six-pack on the top of her car, the frozen pizza beside it. “You forgot your Texas toast.”

“I know,” Amber stands straight, shuts the door of her Ford Escort and pulls keys from her coat pocket.

“Want me to go get you some?”

“No.”

“There is another open mic next week.”

“No, Dustin. No,” Amber shakes her head. “You’re always on my case about doing this and doing that, singing and writing songs. I don’t want to.”

“You did when Martin was here.”

“Oh my God, I am so over that.”

“So now you’re into making crappy plates of pasta for hicks?”

“He’s a farmer. He puts food on people’s table.”

“What a hero.”

“What do you do? Serve overpriced coffee and write sappy songs. You should just go back to Madison.”

“Whatever,” Dustin turns towards his Jeep. Amber hesitates, then shuts her car door, turns over the engine. Dustin realizes he is empty handed. The car squeals off – the six-pack topples and crashes to the black pavement.

“Dammit,” says Dustin, as the pizza splashes in a pool of fizzing liquid and foam.