Page 29 of Lost Love on 6th Street

Eleanor nods vociferously. “Yes, yes, absolutely.”

I keep my mouth shut and nod though I understood maybe half of what he said.

Bobby holds the book out toward Eleanor. She poises her hands underneath the book to receive it as if it’s sacred. “Hopefully you’ll get some information out of this puppy.”

Eleanor pulls the book into her chest, her eyes bright behind her glasses. “Thank you so much for helping us with this.”

“All I did was move some boxes around. And now, I leave you to it. Too damn hot up here,” he says, waving a hand to dash it all away. “If you need anything else, try not to let me know, huh?”

Bobby shuffles back through the maze of boxes until he disappears.

“Well. Guess we should get started,” Eleanor says.

“Guess so,” I say, sliding my hands into my pockets. “You want to go through the photos or the ledger?”

Her lips twist up at the corner. “I think I’ll take the photos. That’s my realm of expertise, isn’t it?”

“Sounds good,” I say.

She passes the book off to me with the same amount of gravitas she received it with. I can’t believe I’m nervous over touching a godforsaken book that probably has more worthless scribbles and scrabbles than anything of particular interest, but this is Eleanor’s territory. She’s given so much respect to mine. It’s my turn to show her respect in kind.

Eleanor goes to the boxes, navigates to the one full of photos, and plops down on the floor without any qualms for dust and splinters.

I pull out the wooden chair. “You can sit, you know?”

She doesn’t look up, lifting the lid and digging into the first stack of photos. “It’s easier this way.”

I don’t like sitting in a chair while she sits on the floor, but I’m not a floor sitter. I like to keep my jeans clean, especially given the price tag they came with. Being a cowboy isn’t implicit with being a southern boy. I don’t like to get dirty or dusty. I like to be crisp and collected, pressed and polished. Even when I’m trying to look “natural” it’s all been carefully cultivated.

Meanwhile, Eleanor’s bohemian, bookish appearance seems to come naturally to an absurd degree.

I crack open the ledger and force myself not to be distracted by her. It’s not just her beauty. It’s the way she pays attention to each and every photo. It’s like I have an inside look at what she does every day. I wonder what she’s thinking as she sizes up each image. If she’s cataloging them. Wondering if they’d look good in the museum’s collection.

Eventually, though, I pull the book up in front of my face. I have to keep it close to read Bobby’s scrawl. I page through. There’s no method to the madness. On some pages, there are lists of expenses, on others there are phone numbers and birthdays.

I find the rhythm to the book eventually. This ledger was a catchall for everything as he went. I come across a list of acts in January. Not even in chronological order. Just a name next to a date. No wonder Kenny said Bobby did a shit job at taking care of The Lone Star.

Still though, while the acts aren’t in chronological order, the months are. I have to be careful not to overlook the months as I page through detailed incident reports and event capacity notes.

“What was the date on the photo again?”

“May 26, 1993,” Eleanor says, not missing a beat. She knows the photo like it’s a piece of her.

Maybe it is.

I navigate toward a page where Bobby wrote in black marker, “May.” Half the page is waterlogged, the writing having turned into inky splotches. “You’ve gotta be kidding me?”

“What? What is it?” Eleanor asks.

I turn the ledger around to her. “All the dates are gone. Just have names.”

Eleanor crawls over to sit in front of me, her eyes scanning the pages. “Well, that’s better than nothing! Instead of a needle in a haystack, it’s a needle in a tumbleweed, huh?”

Her enthusiasm is contagious. “You’re right about that.”

“Here, you read all of them out and I’ll type them into my phone. Even the band names. Who knows, she could have been a part of a group.”

I flip the ledger back around and clear my throat before reading through the list. “Eve Miller. Rusty and Co.—that’s an all-male band, don’t write that down. Theo Quincy.” I keep reading through the names, sometimes noting if I know the artist. If they’re local. If they still perform. If they’ve passed. I pause on a familiar name. “Diane Bloom.”

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