4 #LittleDickandVanillaKipper

June 17, 2017

Saturday

“Hi Daddy.”

Surprise had Jon whirling away from the coffee cup he was rinsing and toward the voice of his twenty-four-year-old daughter.  When Stephanie stepped from the foyer into the kitchen, she brought his effortless smile with her.  He adored all his children, but there was something special about an unscheduled visit from one of his two oldest. 

His two younger kids were teenage boys who lived primarily with their mother in the West Village but visited regularly, in accordance with the divorce settlement.  Both Stephanie and twenty-two-year-old Jesse, however, had graduated college last month and could come and go as they did or didn’t please.  Each had their own apartments in different parts of Manhattan, so it warmed the fatherly cockles of his heart any time they made a trip to SoHo without bribery. 

Even with that damn yippy dog tucked under her arm. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he greeted, drying his hands and tossing the towel aside to pull her into a hug – or at least, he started to.  As usual, her Yorkshire Terrier bodyguard curled his lips in a snarl that had Jon drawing up short.  “Could you do something with that?”

“Tank is not a ‘that’,” Jon’s slightly eclectic daughter reminded, and her nose piercing caught the light as she bent to put the little demon on the floor.  “He just likes to exert his authority.”

“That’s because he has a little dick.”

Laughing, she dropped the white paper bag from her other hand to the kitchen counter before stepping into his embrace and pressing a dark-stained kiss to his jaw.  “Be nice to him or he won’t like you.”

“Never gonna happen.”

The tiny bastard hadn’t liked him from the very first encounter over two years ago.  Jon was still married to Dorothea and living in their West Village apartment when Steph came over to show off her new pet.  When Jon leaned close to give it a scratch behind the ears, the damn rat lunged forward and tried to snap his nose off.  It wasn’t ten minutes later that the little shit hiked a leg on his ankle, thus sealing the future of their “relationship”. 

“At least play nice,” his baby girl warned with a caustically arched brow.  “Or you don’t get what’s in the bag.”

“Maybe I don’t want it.”

“Yeah, right.  Because you’re going to pass up cookies.”

Kicking the toe-nibbling dog away with obligatory gentleness, Jon cut his eyes toward the white bag’s bakery logo.  It wasn’t one he recognized, but he wasn’t picky about who baked his treats.

“You brought cookies, huh?  What kind?” 

He tried to be blasé about asking the question whose answer didn’t matter.  She had him at “cookie” and damn well knew it.  Raisin, sugar, chocolate chip…  It didn’t matter.  None of them were safe from his sweet tooth, and that’s why he kept only fresh fruits, vegetables and wine in the apartment.  

His daughter was his supplier and enjoyed bringing him exotic bites of sugary goodness.  Another reason he was always happy to see her.

“Vanillekipferl.”

“Gesundheit,” Jon returned with dry humor at the German-sounding word, but it didn't earn him the expected laugh.  Not even the hint of a smile.  "Fine.  Then what’s a vanilla kipper?”

“Kipper, Dad?  Really?”  Blue eyes that matched his own rolled to the heavens.  “It’s vanillekipferl.   Vanilla and almond crescent cookies.  They’re Austrian.”

“Gimme.” 

The truth was, he didn’t need her to give him anything.  Reaching around her slender frame, Jon snatched the bag from the countertop and unfolded it to drop his nose in the opening.   One deep breath was all it took to make him chuckle with remembrance. 

Vanilla and almond. 

That was it. 

The woman from the Cuban restaurant may have been dressed in the same shade of beige as a crisp sugar cookie, but she smelled exactly like a fucking vanilla kipper.

It wasn’t like he’d been dwelling on her or her scent, but it had surprised the hell out of him when he tucked Beige into his side and caught a whiff of cookies.  When he bent down to make that observation in her ear, and she chuckled.… 

The combination of that unexpectedly sexy laugh and the smell had almost caused a hard-on. 

Only his aversion to turning up in gossip tabloids had kept him from leaning down to press his nose into the curve of her neck.  If he was in the market to date – and she wasn’t a fan – Jon could be easily tempted into seeing if Beige tasted as good as she smelled. 

Dating didn’t much appeal to him, though, because it required getting to know a woman.  After more than twenty-five years of marriage and four children, he and Dorothea knew one another’s foibles.  He quite frankly didn’t have an interest in opening himself up or learning someone else at this stage of his life.

He could probably just fuck Beige, but that didn’t hold the appeal it once did.  Aging played hell on a man’s sense of morality and decency, and most women his age who wanted to just fuck weren’t women he wanted to be fucking in the first place.  Too many weird diseases running rampant nowadays.

“So, what do I owe the pleasure?” he mumbled around a kipper, using his palm to wipe the spray of powdered sugar and crumbs from the counter.

His daughter shrugged as the rat dog growled at his reflection in the terrace door.

Dumb dog.

“I just came to check on you.  Make sure you’re taking care of yourself.  Find out if you’re dating anyone.  That kinda thing.”

Jon’s jaw froze in mid-chew, and his gaze snapped to hers.  Had she been reading his mind a minute ago, or was he getting senile and speaking his thoughts aloud?

“You look like you just got busted.  Does that mean you are dating someone?”

“Nuh-uh,” he denied and swallowed the bite of cookie.  “I was just thinking how violently opposed I am to it.”

Skepticism radiated from his eldest’s eyes like laser beams.  “You don’t have to pretend for my sake, Dad.  Or any of us for that matter.  We all know it’s going to happen sooner or later.  Mom’s already seeing someone.”

It was really bad timing that had him popping a second cookie in his mouth during that little announcement.  His surprised breath delivered enough powdered sugar to send him into a coughing fit and Stephanie to the sink for water.

“Here.”

“Thanks,” he choked out after a swallow.  “Sugar went down the wrong way.”

“Mhm.  Along with the news about Mom’s boyfriend.”

Dropping what was left of the kipper into the bag, he snarled at Stephanie’s smug amusement much as the dog had snarled at him. “Your mother is free to see anyone she wants, as long as he isn’t an asshole to you kids.”

“But you didn’t expect her to start dating before you did.”

“I’ve never given it any thought.”

But maybe he should’ve.  While the news hadn’t gone down the wrong way as suggested, it was more startling than it should’ve been at this late date.  Just because he found it too much effort to start a relationship didn’t mean Dorothea did – and he gave her silent kudos for being open and willing. 

“Okay, Dad.  Whatever.”

“I haven’t,” he insisted adamantly, turning to dump the remaining water in the sink.  “But since you brought it up, who’s the guy?”

“His name’s Benjamin.”

Benjamin. 

Well, the good news was that it didn’t piss Jon off.  He didn’t feel much of anything other than abstract interest, which was good, he guessed.  It meant he wasn’t harboring some deep-seated expectation that they’d move past the divorce and reunite.  Only a moron would, since God knew Dot had explained it explicitly enough.  

The end.  Finito.  Kaput. 

She was tired and wanted out, so he’d let her go, like there was a choice in the matter.  His wife had raised their family, supported his every whim and asked for very little in return.  Very little was what he’d given, and she finally decided she was worth more.

She wasn’t wrong. 

Six months of divorce proceedings, Divorce Day, and the year since had given him plenty of proof it was over.  No more husband and wife.  They were now just friends who were forever connected by their kids.  

“She like him?” Jon inquired with a nonchalance meant to reinforce his lack of concern over Dorothea’s dating.

“She had all of us over for dinner and introduced him, so yeah.”

“How is he?”

“He’s fine.   Nice.   Good job.  Financially stable.  All the things a girl wants for her mother,” Stephanie sighed impatiently, bending to scoop up the rat dog.  “Now let’s talk about the things a girl wants for her father.”

Oh God.  Now his daughter was going to school him on what to look for in a date?  Or worse yet, a relationship? 

No, no, and thank you very much… no.

“A girl wants her father to be able to manage his own fuckin’ life, so how ‘bout you just let me do it, ‘kay?”  

It clearly was not okay, because her eyebrows knitted fiercely when warning, “Dad…”

Before she could rip him a new ass, angels sang and brought him mercy.  It was actually his phone ringing in the living room, but close enough.  

Saved by the bell.

“Oops, sorry baby,” he apologized without a damn bit of sincerity and pointed toward the ringing.  “I need to grab that.”

“We are so not done with this conversation.”

He didn’t let her see the roll of his eyes, but Jon did wonder how and when his offspring had acquired the ability to impersonate a nagging wife.  She was too young to be a nag, but fortunately for him, Jon knew the trick to avoiding all sorts of people, including nagging daughter-wives.  It was called the art of distraction.

“I think Little Dick needs to take a leak.  Why don’t you let him water the fake tree on the terrace while I take my call?” he suggested over one shoulder en route to the coffee table, where the brightly lit screen displayed Irving Azoff’s name.

He frowned as Stephanie grumbled under her breath. 

Unsolicited calls from his manager always made him uneasy.  Managers didn’t reach out of their own accord unless something was wrong, and with a new tour in the planning stages, there was plenty that could be wrong.

“Irv.  How’s it goin’?”

“Jon,” the man bit out in a no-nonsense manner that had earned him Jon’s business.  He got to the point and didn’t waste time.  “I just got off the phone with Jon Landau.”

Landau was the chairman of the nominating committee for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, which was the same Hall of Fame that had locked Bon Jovi out of membership for the last ten years.  Pieces of fuck hadn’t even put them on the nominee list but one time, in 2011.    

Slouching back against the chair he’d dropped into, Jon bitterly responded, “So?”

“Put on your happy face, Jon,” his manager instructed.  “It’s far too early for official announcements, but Landau says you’ll be on this year’s ballot.”

They’d been down this road before.  The whole thing would end up being a cruel joke in the end, and while Jon desperately wanted not to give a fuck, he still sat straighter in the chair.    

Last time you were down this road, your fans didn't have a say-so in the selection.  Times have changed.

The very next year after their nomination, the Rock Hall decided they wanted to stir more public interest.  Their way of doing it was to involve music fans in the process. 

A panel of ass-kissing administrators no longer held all the cards for the induction vote.  That evil power was to be shared with the general populace, who would use an online poll to make their favorite nominee known.  The top five vote-getters in that poll each earned a single ballot that carried the same weight of one of the ass-kisser ballots.  

It might be only one collective vote, but so far, every band who earned it had been granted a spot in the Hall. 

Bon Jovi had a lot of doggedly loyal fans around the world, and they shared his bitterness at being snubbed.  They would support him.  Without a doubt, he knew they would bust their asses to support him in this as they did everything else.

It could really happen this time.

Jon superstitiously didn’t voice the thought but proceeded with cautious optimism, “You think the fuckers are actually going to let us in?”

“The ‘fuckers’ don’t have much choice if the public demands it.  You just have to rally your troops when the time comes.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.  My people have gotten good at drumming up online attention.”

There was a pause and then, “I mean really rally them Jon.  Not just generic blasts from your social media team.  If you truly want this, then you need to stir a personal interest.”

There was something about his manager’s tone that made Jon wary.  “What do you mean by ‘personal interest’?”

“I mean it’s time you reach out to the fans through social media.  I know you hate the idea, but you need these people to vote every day for a month straight to get that ballot.  They’re more likely to do it if Jon Bon Jovi personally encourages them to, rather than a nameless and faceless media team.” 

Connecting with his fans was one thing, but social media was equivalent to an oozing case of syphilis in Jon’s mind.  From his point of view, the world was far too invested in the likes of Facebook and all that bullshit.  He paid people to deal with it for the band, but as far as putting his personal life on display any more than it already was…?

“Not happening.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”  Irv was completely unruffled by the flat refusal.  “That’s why I didn’t wait for your blessing.  Springsteen has a neighbor that showed him – and I quote – ‘how fun it could be’.  Bruce is hooked on Candy Crush or some such nonsense now but still sings the neighbor’s praises to anybody who’ll listen.  I got you a meeting.”  

“Irv, what fucking part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”

The gruff laughter only irritated Jon further.  “The part that knows once you’re done being righteous, you’ll do whatever it takes to get in the Hall.  I’ll email you the details.”

Without waiting for any type of agreement, his manager disconnected the call and left Jon with a stabbing pain in his right eye. 

Because Irv was right.  

He would do whatever was necessary to tip the scales in his favor, but Jesus Christ.  Instagram and Twitter?

Where the hell are the rest of those cookies?