Page 7 of Love Set Free

Once again, I keep my voice soft and reassuring. “That’s okay. Any and all information helps. And…I won’t say it’s comfortingknowing that it’s not just one lone idiot behind this all, but it’s good to know. And maybe that means the kidnapping racket is something they do often. This is their job and they’ll…they’ll treat it like a job. Be professional and efficient about this.”

My comment is meant to console myself more than Jackson. And there are some obvious flaws in my argument. Professional kidnappers probably wouldn’t have made a giant goof such as nabbing the wrong guy, like they had with Jackson. On the other hand, the effectiveness and cleverness of the cage set-up does kind of scream professional kidnappers who know what they’re doing.

But a job… I understand work and doing your job professionally. So, the thought that I’m just a job to a group of people… It gives me a glimmer of hope that my ransoming will go off without any hitches. Ideally, things won’t devolve into pain and physical violence. Really, the quicker and more seamlessly this thing is over and done with, the better.

Chapter Four

Phoenix

“Bon Jovi? Seriously?” I ask as my face scrunches up in surprise and skepticism. “Isn’t he, like, ancient?”

“Eh. He is getting kind of old,” Jackson replies. “Doesn’t mean his music isn’t still awesome.”

With nothing to while away the time as we wait for whatever the next phase of our mutual captivity is, we’ve started covering basic get to know each other topics. Favorite color. Mine, the bright green of new leaves. Jackson’s, cliched and boring sky blue. Pets are a no from both of us, although we both expressed the thought that having a dog would be nice, if a lot of responsibility.

Listing off our favorite foods is probably a bit masochistic since we’re stuck with the unappetizing gloop we’re fed twice daily. Nonetheless, we go there. And while I can’t see it, I can hear the horrified and disgusted tone of Jackson’s voice after I tell him that I rotate between a couple of different sushi places in my hometown of Westerly, Rhode Island, and know exactly which roll is better at one place over the other. On the other hand, I have to agree with Jackson’s opinion that a good, thick,juicy steak, cooked to a perfect medium rare, is an absolute mouthwatering thing of beauty.

Surprisingly, tossing out our favorite movies leads us incredibly close to the land of politics and the philosophical debate of whether you could, or should, separate a piece of art or culture from the person who created it.

“Ugh. I know, I know,” Jackson says. He sounds grumpy enough that I have to wonder if he’s pouting.

What would that look like on his face? Hard to know without knowing what the other man looks like. Does he have fuller lips that tend to naturally pout anyway? Are they thinner? Do they normally crook and curl into easy smiles? As much as I try to conjure an image of what the man looks like based on his voice alone, there’s just no way to know how close I am or not to what my brain came up with.

“I know I shouldn’t watch the movies anymore. And I get it. I know J.K.—"

“Uh uh uh,” I interrupt, before he can say the name of the author who should no longer be named. And yes, I’m aware of the irony.

“Anyway. I know I shouldn’t watch those movies anymore. But they were always my favorites when I was younger. I just can’t make myself give them up.”

“But watching them is like a tacit acceptance of the shit their creator spews out.”

“Or…or…it’s me showing my love and support for the actors in the movies? They all seem like nice people.” Jackson pauses for a moment before he adds, “Besides, they were such a part of my childhood. And there’s something…something…magicalabout those movies." He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “And the idea of an ordinary kid, that nobody seems to like or appreciate, finding out that he’s actually one of the most important, pivotalpeople alive…that’s just the stuff of every kid’s longings and dreams, isn’t it?”

I want to argue that whatever magic Jackson and other HP fans found in the book and movie series is false and corrupted due to the root of foulness it sprang out from, but there is such a wistful, sad tone to Jackson’s voice that I can’t bring myself to do so. I have the sense that hammering away at him from some philosophical soapbox would inflict needless wounds to a man whose heart didn’t need them.

Keeping my own tone light, I comment, “I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree. But when we get out of here, don’t expect me to sit down to a movie marathon with you. Not unless I get to pick the movies.”

He still sounds a little mellow, but Jackson agrees easily enough. “Yeah. Alright. Movie picks are on you. As long as you’re not picking out some weird, foreign language, intellectual mind-fuck of a movie. Movies are for fun, not for thinking and reading subtitles. If’n I want to read something, I’ll pick up a danged book.”

We moved onto a discussion of what sort of music we liked to listen to. Bringing me back around to Jackson’s unexpected revelation that he enjoys listening to a band whose song catalogue had largely all come out before either one of us had even been born.

“Where did you even... Is that what your parents listened to when you were little? Is that the kind of music radio stations play down in...wherever you live? How in the world did you start liking Bon Jovi?”

“Naw,” Jackson replies, his southern accent slow and syrupy. And fuck, but my brain couldn’t help but get stuck on the notion that a man who sounds like Jackson did must also look as equally delicious. “My folks mostly listened to country. And that’s what’s on like 80% of the radio stations pretty mucheverywhere all over the south. But Chattanooga, where I’m living now, being in the same state as Nashville—the heart and soul of country music—is no exception to that. No, a couple years ago, I ran across this old cassette tape of Bon Jovi songs in a thrift shop, picked it up for fifty cents because it was a band that I’d at least heard of before, and I’ve been listening to it ever since.”

“Oh, my God,” I comment, an incredulous laugh escaping me. “Are you fucking kidding me? How old are you? Should I call you grandpa? A cassette tape?”

“What?” Jackson’s own light laugh let me know he isn’t upset at my teasing. “My car has a tape deck and you can get cassettes for really damned cheap. It’s hard to find ones you’d actually want to listen to, of course, but they’re cheap. And I’m only 24, so no cracks about my age if you please.”

“Ah, I see. It’s just your car that’s a relic then.”

“Yeah. It kinda is.” A sigh proceeds Jackson correcting himself. “Er, or it was.”

“Oh, really?” That sounds like there could be a story there. And since we have plenty of time for Jackson to regale me with all the stories he could… “It was? What does that mean? Is your car no more?”

“I mean, it, like, still exists and all. I just don’t have it anymore.”

“Oh.”

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