I couldn’t believe the first time I saw him. Willoughby. In Kappy’s. In this working-class liquor store in a nowhere suburb of Boston. What was he doing here?
I had been a huge fan of his when I was young. It was his blue eyes that gave him away.
He came to the register with a carriage full of Grey Goose, the kind that costs 70 dollars a bottle. He had ten. I looked at his piercing eyes.
“Hello,” I said.
“Do I have to take all these out of the carriage?” he asked in his British accent.
“If they’re all the same, you can take out one, and I can scan it,” I said. “But do you want a box?”
“Yes, a box would be helpful, thank you,” he said.
He took the bottles out of the carriage, and I scanned one, then put them in a box. He stood there looking out the window.
I knew I shouldn’t say anything, but I had to. Celebrities never came to Kappy’s.
“Are you Willoughby?” I whispered.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“The rock star, Willoughby,” I said. “Are you him?”
“I have no idea who that is,” he said.
I rang up the total. “That will be 699.89.”
He gave me his credit card. It said his name, Jonathan Willoughby.
“You are him,” I said. “I can’t believe it.”
“Keep this to yourself,” he muttered, taking back his credit card.
“Oh, of course. What are you doing here?”
“Visiting a friend who lives in the area. We’re having a party tonight.”
“Wow, I’m so thrilled! It’s great to meet you.”
He took his box of Grey Goose and left the store.
“Did you know who that was?” I asked my coworker, Carla.
“No, who was he?” she asked. “He bought a lot of Grey Goose. That’s expensive stuff.”
“That was Willoughby. He was a big rock star back in the Eighties. He still makes music, but he’s not as popular as he used to be.”
“What was he doing in a dump like this?” she said.
“He said he’s visiting a friend. I think it’s strange. He was famous for being depressed. He sang songs about being alone and sad.”
“And people like that? Did he have fans?”
“Yes, he was big underground. He was a punk rocker.”
“I don’t know nothing about that kind of music. But if he comes in again, point him out to me. Celebrities don’t come here, and I want to see what he looks like.”
“I don’t know if he’ll come in again, since he said he’s visiting a friend.”
I had been a huge fan of Willoughby’s. I stopped listening to his music a long time ago. It reminded me of my youth, sitting around drinking beer and smoking pot after school with my friends. My life was different now.
I had worked in an office for twenty years as an administrative assistant. I was laid off because of the pandemic, then I got a job at Kappy’s. I liked working at Kappy’s because all sorts of strange people came in there. I didn’t like standing on my feet, but I got used to it. I force my husband to give me foot massages.
I got the idea that everyone who came into the store was an alcoholic. I didn’t drink that much, but a lot of people did. And at Kappy’s, most people bought the cheap stuff.
Vodka was a big seller, and Budweiser, and big bottles of wine, White Zinfandel and Moscato. I didn’t know the difference between good and bad wine, but my coworkers tried to educate me.
“We used to have wine tastings here, and a lot of people came,” Carla told me. “But since Covid, we don’t have them anymore.”
“I wish Willoughby would come back,” I said. “There’s so much I want to tell him. I want to tell him how much his music meant to me when I was young.”
“Maybe you should write this on Facebook or something,” Carla said.
“I think he might want privacy,” I said.
Sometimes, when the delivery person was busy, the manager had me deliver the products to people who bought things online. One cold Thursday, I was on a route, and I stopped at a big house in an upscale part of the town, that had ten bottles of Grey Goose, and six bottles of Blanton’s bourbon, and a bottle of Diet Sprite delivered there. I lugged the two boxes up a lot of stairs. I saw a face peek out the window on the door.
“Willoughby!” I shouted. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh, this is where my friend lives,” he said.
“Do you need help with those?” I asked.
“No, I can take those from here,” he said. “Thank you very much.”
“I wanted to tell you how much you meant to me when I was young,” I said.
“Yes, of course,” he said, picking up a box.
“I really loved you,” I said.
“But you don’t anymore?” he said.
“I’ve been listening to your music again since I saw you in the store.”
“Will you please leave?”
“Yes, okay, I will.” I tried to look into the house. I saw one car in the driveway.
He shut the door in my face. I noticed a tabby cat staring at me accusingly from the window.
Did he live here? Was he lying when he said he was visiting a friend? I had a feeling that was true. Why would he lie?
Of course, he would lie. He didn’t want anyone to know that he lives in an ordinary suburb of Boston. He’s probably hiding from the world. I don’t blame him. People are obsessed with him. If he lived here, nobody would care.
But was he alone? Did he have any friends in the area? I wanted to be his friend. I didn’t think my husband or my grown children would like it if I became friends with a washed-up punk rock singer. But I pitied him. He bought a lot of vodka.
I stood on Willoughby’s stairs and looked into the street. Life wasn’t fair sometimes. You can be famous and successful and cool, but you could end up drinking vodka alone with a cat in a boring suburb of Boston. Life was difficult, if you were rich or poor. I got in my car, and drove back to Kappy’s. I decided not to tell anyone for a little while that Willoughby lived here. I thought he would want to be alone. I tried to imagine why he would move here to this small part of the world, and the only reason I could conjure was that he was hiding from reality.
I would let Willoughby have peace, because he needed it. We all need peace, and we have to work on finding it wherever we can. When I got home, I turned on a Youtube video of him singing a song I liked when I was young. I sat on my couch and curled up, and fell asleep, dreaming of my youth listening to Willoughby. I loved him, but I felt sorry for him. I had to let him live his life, with his vodka and his cat. And I had to continue with mine. I woke up. It was time for dinner.
Shannon O'Connor holds an MFA in Writing and Literature from Bennington College. She has been published previously in The Rye Whiskey Review, as well as Oddball Magazine, Wordgathering, 365 Tomorrows, and others. She is the chairperson of the Boston Chapter of the National Writers Union. She lives in the Boston area, and in her spare time likes to dress up as Amelia Earhart and play the tin whistle, not always at the same time.
