Bliss, Bliss, Bliss

By Chrissi Sepe

Felicity wants what we all do: happiness, money, success, and love.
This proves difficult in the deserted resort town where she lives
and performs at a piano bar in the middle of winter. She knows her
boyfriend isnt her soul mate and feels that losing her father in her
adolescence may have stunted her emotional growth and her ability
to have a mature relationship. She dreams of the day she will be
discovered and can make her way out of Ocean City. If she does,
will she have found her soul mate by then? Will he follow her?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465304513

Chrissi Sepe

Chrissi Sepe has written three novels, one screenplay and several short stories. She studied Songwriting and Voice at Berklee College of Music where she met her soul mate who became her husband. She lives with him and their daughter in New York City.

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Copyright © 2011 by Chrissi Sepe.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4653-6160-8

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4653-0451-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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102909

For Dad

I first became aware of death when my father held me up to see the view from the top of the Empire State Building. I thought that if he moved me just one foot over, I would die. But I trusted him to hold me tight. I wouldn’t fall over, and he would place me down safely.

I don’t know how I finally chose among them. What makes us able to make a decision of who we want to be with? Sometimes the answer seems to stare us in the face, finally, after everything. That person that was there right beside you, the one who you almost lost forever, was the right person all along.

As I sit watching him in my hotel room, I think of how comforting it is to have him travel with me from city to city, even country to country. How all he brings with him is this one suitcase. How he seems to love this experience of traveling with me. How he comes along wherever. Whenever I perform, he is with me. It was hard for him to make this decision, but he was unhappy before. I am so happy that he is beside me. Everything we see, we will see together.

If we are in Texas, he buys a cowboy hat. If we are in New Orleans, he eats only Cajun food. If we are in Montana, he takes me mountain climbing, and I still make it back in time for my performance. How lucky I am to have him here with me, when I could have been traveling alone.

Tonight I am going to perform one of my father’s old songs. And as I rehearse it, I realize how each phrase of it means so much to me. It reminds me of how, many years ago in the 1990’s, my life was so different. Each phrase of this song is so pertinent to that turbulent time when I was miserable, lonely, and completely clueless about my love life.

I had been working at a piano bar in Ocean City. Mostly I played show tunes and jazz standards. But sometimes I would sneak in my originals. I really wanted to be a songwriter, but I hadn’t recorded a good enough demo yet. That is all my life consisted of then. My job singing and playing at the piano bar, my big dreams of becoming a famous singer-songwriter, and sitting home in my apartment that was filled with angels.

I read once, in a magazine, how our loved ones became angels after they died. I went out to buy as many angels as I could find—ceramic angels, wooden angels, paper angels, handmade, store-bought, holy angels. I looked for a male angel, but I couldn’t find one. I decorated my three-foot, fake Christmas tree entirely of angels. I put my tiny angels on my dresser. I bought a huge paper mache angel with red hair and put it in my living room. It’s two feet tall. My mother always says my father is my guardian angel, but I’m still afraid to go out at night.

So how did I get to the point I’m at today? Maybe I can explain it using the phrases of my father’s song…

"Feel like a man on a spinning top.

You drive me crazy but I just can’t stop.

Feel like a man in the summertime.

The sun is shining and the world is mine."

Did you ever meet a person who could say things that you hate, who could sound like a snob and annoy you half the time, yet you couldn’t help being so incredibly drawn to them? Drew was always this person to me. One who I hated and loved at the very same time.

I met Drew in college. We never dated, but we hung around with the same group of people. I was attracted to him the instant I saw him. He had longish, sandy-brown hair, blue eyes and was rail-thin. I thought he’d be perfect looking if he just gained a little weight or if he had broad shoulders. But that face! He looked like a cross between a young Jeff Bridges and Eddie Vedder.

I’m sure it was just by coincidence that Drew and I both wound up in Ocean City. I moved there because I love the ocean, and Drew moved there to get his Master’s Degree. Drew was the only other person I knew from college besides me who wasn’t working a ‘straight’ job.

That December, Drew was going on his fourth year of his Master’s Degree. He said that was because he couldn’t afford to take too many credits at a time. Drew worked in this seedy movie theater and lived in a tiny, run-down apartment. I wasn’t really sure why Drew lived that way, because his mother was an inventor who was supposedly worth millions.

Drew was dating a girl named Sally who he’d met a couple of years ago from one of his classes. Sally was studying to be a social worker. She had wavy, thick black hair and a hoop nose ring. Drew told me she was anorexic and crazy but claimed that was okay because he wasn’t the sanest either. He said Sally was the female version of him. They were inseparable. (Although they did split up for a while when Sally started seeing one of Drew’s former roommates.)

For a while, Drew and I didn’t even know we were both living in the same city. We just bumped into each other on the boardwalk. Of course, he was riding his skateboard. Drew went everywhere with his skateboard. I didn’t think he would ever stop using it. He always made such a spectacle of himself. His long hair, orange T-shirt, jeans with his skinny legs, riding everywhere on his skateboard. Winter—summer—always on his skateboard.

Drew and I were both free during the day, so we slowly started hanging out together. We both worked at night, so except for the odd time when Drew had a class, we’d usually go out for lunch.

Most of the time we’d go to the same place—this cafe along the boardwalk overlooking the water. Drew always wanted to sit outside, but sometimes it was too cold so we sat indoors. Drew wore a bright green T-shirt with a long, dark blue, wool coat thrown over it, open. He took the coat off and threw it over his chair. I sat across from him and watched him as he looked at the menu. I stared at the top of his head, at his scalp. The hair around it looked soft with just a bit of shine. He’d washed his hair today and showered too. It was hard to tell whether Drew had skipped his shower or whether he hadn’t washed his clothes because sometimes, when I stood next to him, he smelled like he’d grabbed his clothes from the bottom of the laundry bag.

I watched the ocean from the window. The tide came in so calmly, and the sun shined bright on top of it. But it was deceiving to the eye because the weather was so cold outside.

Drew was excited about this new book he’d just bought about serial killers.

Why do you read that garbage? I asked him.

It fascinates me. Like the way you’re so fascinated by death.

I’m not fascinated by death!

Yes you are. You still watch those same James Dean movies over and over.

What on earth does watching James Dean movies have to do with being fascinated by death?

He died, didn’t he?! And you talk about it all the time.

About what? James Dean dying or about death?

You know what I’m talking about.

Yeah, whatever.

So. How’s the music going? Write any new songs lately?

A petite waitress came over to take our order. She had long, dark hair and pretty green eyes. She was thin and wore a tight T-shirt. She had a gentle, friendly smile. Drew sprang up in his seat when he saw her. Hi, I’ll have an espresso, please.

Sure. And you, sweetie?

Sweetie? She couldn’t have been a day over twenty. Oh, I’ll have a hot chocolate, please, with whipped cream and marshmallows.

Aren’t you going to eat? Drew asked. It’s lunchtime.

No. You’re not having lunch.

Well, I can’t afford lunch.

What makes you think I can?

The waitress cut in. Gee, I’d like to buy both of you lunch if I could, I feel so sorry, she joked.

Drew laughed like a hyena, and I felt this rage building up inside of me because I thought he liked her.

Oh, that’s okay, Drew said. That’s all we’ll have today, thanks.

The waitress smiled and walked away.

Did you notice she called me sweetie? I asked Drew.

I know. To think that anyone would call you ‘sweet!’

Funny. What does she think she is—my grandmother or something?

She was just being friendly, Felicity.

She’s weird.

The waitress came back with a tiny white cup of black espresso and a mug of steaming hot chocolate. Hope it fills you up! she said as she set them down on the square marble table.

Drew laughed uncontrollably, sounding like an idiot.

What would Sally say? I asked as I ate one marshmallow off of my spoon.

Sally?

Yeah. About you flirting with the waitress.

I wasn’t flirting with her.

Oh.

Drew looked around the room, and I followed the blue in his eyes. I gazed down quickly at his hands, the pale skin and bony fingers. But I liked his hands.

You never answered my question, he suddenly said.

What question?

How’s the songwriting going?

Oh, it’s okay. I wrote a new one yesterday.

Is it a love song?

I don’t know. It’s about a woman who likes this guy, and she wakes up in this dark room and sees him standing beside her bed—but he doesn’t want to touch her—because he doesn’t really like her—at least that’s what she assumes.

Maybe he’s just shy. Is it anyone I know? Drew asked, fiddling with his spoon, looking down at the table.

No, it’s not.

Nice guy?

I wouldn’t know.

Why not?

Because I don’t really know him.

Then how would you know whether he likes you or not?

I don’t know really, I’m just guessing.

Then why bother with him?

I’m not. I just wrote a song about him.

Drew shook his head and took a huge gulp of straight black espresso. There was an uncomfortable pause in the conversation.

"So,