That day, the funny one—the only junkie with heft (“I’m a husky boy!”), the one who actually refers to the group as “the junkies” rather than just “my friends”—told me that the escape they’re looking for is from: boredom. They numb themselves out of boredom.
Geez.
While we talked, the little girl rubbed the blue goo into my hair, then expertly wrapped my blue, gooey head in the scarf and told me I could rinse it out whenever I felt like it. Because she wouldn’t accept the ten dollar bill I held out for her, I put them on the guest list for the show that night and now they come every time we play. Tonight, they look really happy; their whispering is making them laugh. They don’t seem bored.
Painters stand between the junkies and the psychos. They don’t move, they don’t jump or whisper or dance; they listen ferociously. I admire this.
I’m sitting on a folding chair backstage, dressed as a cardboard cowgirl. I wear a cardboard cowboy hat and a cardboard vest and swing my tiny tap shoes back and forth over the linoleum floor. I am riddled with terror.
My parents kneel on the floor in front of me.
“After the recital, we’ll go get ice cream,” says Crane, a tense smile on her face.
Dude fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a five dollar bill. “I’ll give you five bucks to go out there,” he says.
I shake my head. “I’m just not the type.”
Far from everyone, huddled in a corner of the club, are Betty and her priest. I’ve never asked her why she brings her priest to shows, but he’s always there. I know they’re very close. They’re sort of dating . . . spiritually. And they never miss a show. It’s funny, like every day is Bring Your Grandma and Her Priest to Work Day. Betty can’t even pronounce the name of the band; she says that “Throw-ing Mu-ses” is too many syllables. I told her “Bet-ty Hut-ton” has just as many, but she ignored me.
“We never call ourselves Throwing Muses, anyway,” I said. “We say Blowing Fuses or Spewing Mouses.”
She didn’t think that was funny. “Krissy! That’s just as many syllables!”
Tonight, Betty’s hair is gold and she’s wearing her blue cowboy boots and a cowboy hat. Her priest is dressed as a priest. The two of them lean against the back wall of the club, talking. Betty has gigantic sunglasses on because she doesn’t like being “recognized.”
Now that I know her deep, weird need for stardom, I act like a tiny bodyguard when I’m with her, shielding her from invisible autograph hounds wherever we go, as I’m sure her priest is doing now. I think this has backfired a little. She now believes fans are everywhere: at school, at the beach, at Dunkin’ Donuts. I have to buy our coffees in the morning, she’s so scared to be seen. It’s strange; she’s no fading flower—she’s really fucking loud—but unusually fragile. She seems to love the idea of fans and hate the fans themselves. Or else she’s just afraid of them. Of course, there are no fans. This minor detail hasn’t dented her persona a bit. Betty is a movie star, through and through.
When we play gay bars, she and her priest look like a coupla nifty drag queens, but in this dismal rock club, they look small and lonely—out of place. It’s sad that this is their big Friday night out on the town. There are probably better things for an old lady and her priest to do on a Friday night.
But Betty thinks she has to come to all of our shows because I need help (sorta true). She says I’m a reluctant performer (also true) and that she can learn me up to sparkle (this will never happen). According to her, one more thing she and I have in common is music. This is wholly psychotic.
Betty grew up in the golden age of Hollywood, back when movies were Broadway on film, so her idea of music is “singing as entertainment,” and you can’t call what I do singing or entertainment. I hiss and yell and wail. Sometimes I make seagull noises, unfortunately. Music is something I have almost no control over. Like well-rehearsed Tourette’s.
When Betty sings, she sits at a piano and says lovely things about hope and broken hearts. I often sing phonetically, as if I don’t speak English. The words climb out of my throat and into my mouth. Then I have to spit them out.
Betty sings about starlight and champagne. I sing about dead rabbits and blow jobs. When I say playing music is owning violence, she says it’s owning love; when I say it’s math, she says it’s tap dancing; when I say it’s my gun, she says it’s her dance card.
I’ve also noticed that she sings notes that go with the chords in her songs. I have yet to do that. It sounds pretty when Betty does it; it sounds boring and goofy when I do it. So I make up new notes, ones that don’t belong anywhere near the chords I’m playing, and I sing those. People must think, It’s so nice of them to let that deaf girl sing.
I can’t imagine what I sound like to Betty. Not boring, I bet. Maybe goofy. I actually drew a Goofus and Gallant-style cartoon once called “Kristin and Betty” and passed it to her in class. I drew her as a sparkling Amazon sashaying across the stage and me as a little rat girl with spirals for eyes. I thought it was hilarious; she thought it was Art and hung it up in her house.
Later, it occurred to me that she has no idea who Goofus and Gallant are; she’s too old to have read Highlights magazine in her grammar school library when she was a kid. She was probably raised on Dick and Jane books. Maybe I’ll do a Dick and Jane cartoon for her: “See Betty tap dance. See Kristin spaz.”
Maybe not—she’d hang it on the wall. Betty’s crazy enthusiastic.
Which is part of why I love having her here. My stage fright melts away when I see Betty ’cause she’s the opposite of a rock club: she’s the antiscuzz. And getting felt up by frat guys doesn’t seem so bad when you have a secret superhero standing in the back of the room who could kick their asses. She totally could, too; she’s got big muscles and those guys were already wasted. I’d love to see Betty take on some drunk frat boys. She’d make them die.
Her priest is a really nice guy, too. A little tense maybe, but pretty normal for a priest, from what I hear. He smiles encouragingly and gives me the thumbs up whenever I so much as glance at him. Right now, he’s watching the opening band studiously.
Betty catches my eye from across the room and does her joyful home movies wave. I wave back and join them in the corner to watch the end of the opening band’s set. This band is in the throes of an outro balanced on top of another outro on top of something that was probably an outro. Other bands fascinate me. They’re so fun. Nobody would ever call us “fun.”
Unfortunately, these guys’re playing music they’ve heard before, which is comfy but easy. And musicians get smarmy when they aren’t busting their asses. They don’t have to concentrate on what they’re playing, so they concentrate on how they look while they’re playing it: they grimace and jump around. Trying to get laid tonight, I imagine. I wonder if it works. I should ask them.
The song ends with a big finish. Then another big finish. Another one. And . . . done. The musicians jump off the stage, cheering along with the audience. Gosh, they’re having a good time. As the lights come up in the room and the clapping peters out, the band members high-five each other and their friends in the front row.
I look at Betty, concerned. She’s still hiding from fans who aren’t there. “Do you wanna hang out in the dressing room?” I point over her shoulder.
“I’ll think about it.” She looks around nervously and pulls the brim of her cowboy hat down lower. “But Father McGuire likes the people-watching out here.”
Father McGuire smiles engagingly, his mouth widening to the point where his face must hurt. “There’s so much energy in the room,” he says. “Everyone’s excited!”
Betty is businesslike. “Oh, yes. Including us.” Father McGuire sticks his thumbs up, nodding happily. “We can’t wait for the show to start,” Betty murmurs, glancing around the room distractedly. I find this hard to believe. They see every show. At this point, we could only be making them tired and confused.
Then, giving me a sly wink, she snaps into “s
howbiz tips” mode. Betty’s showbiz tips are heartbreakingly bizarre. “What’re you gonna do tonight, Krissy?” she asks gaily.
I think for a second. “I don’t know, what?” I hate being quizzed on this stuff. Father McGuire’s eyebrows shoot up past his glasses and settle high on his forehead.
“String ’em along!” she squeals, spreading her long, frosty nails like cat’s claws. “Play with ’em! Cats and mice! It’s spring, sweetie, and you’re a super kid! Fall in love!” Father McGuire nods and smiles.
“Okay, Betty.”
“And remember: don’t just stare into space! Ask ’em with your eyes: Do you want some more?” She says Al Jolson told her to do that.
“But I already know the answer, Betty: No.” And she giggles.
Guys from the opening band file past us on their way to the dressing room, which means it’s time for us to set up. My stomach lurches with stage fright. “Good show!” I call out to them, wringing my hands nervously. Father McGuire sticks his thumbs up at them.
The guitar player stops and looks at me. “What’s wrong with your hands?” he asks. “Are they sore? Lemme get you some Tiger Balm; I got some in my backpack.” He disappears into the dressing room, then returns with a tube of this ubiquitous ointment, which is sorta like vegan Ben-Gay. I’ve never really needed it, but everyone seems to use it.
He squeezes a generous amount of Tiger Balm onto my palm. I rub it all over both hands and up my arms—can’t hurt, right? Holy crap! It feels crazy. Searing ice. Jesus. “Thanks!” My voice sounds really high-pitched. He grins and takes the Tiger Balm back to the dressing room, returning a minute later with a beer that he presses into my greasy hands. “Shit . . .” I say when he leaves.
“Yeah, Tiger Bomb burns like a motherfucker,” says Betty. Her priest smiles brightly.
“And I haven’t taken out my contacts yet.” Not seeing is a very important part of playing music for me. I stare into space and get lost in a warm, fuzzy sensory deprivation tank of sound. No audience, no club, just my best friend: noise.
Betty claims it’s nearsightedness that keeps me from “falling in love,” which is what she calls singing well. She’s never actually come out and told me she thinks I sing badly, but I sing so weird, I don’t see how she could think anything else. According to her, I have to make eye contact with audience members . . . and something about mice playing with cats and cats flirting with mice. Or vice versa. I don’t know. I don’t try very hard to do this ’cause I can’t imagine anything worse than trying to play while looking at people who are looking at me.
“So leave your contacts in,” says Betty. “And ask ’em with your eyes, Do you want some—”
“I can’t,” I whine.
Betty throws her hands up. “So take’ em out.” Father McGuire watches with an animated frown.
I take out my contacts and hold them in my hand. Tears roll down my cheeks. Squinting at Betty and her priest through a thick fog, I announce, “I just set my eyeballs on fire.”
It’s worth Tiger Balm tears to fuzzify all the faces in this room, but they’re looking really fuzzy right now. I wonder if I’ll be able to see my effects pedals or the set list. I look down at my hands—they’re a soft blur. Betty takes a handkerchief out of her purse and, grabbing me by the chin, wipes away my tears with it. “Wow,” I say through her hand. “I thought only my grandfather carried a handkerchief. How old are you, anyway?” This makes her angry and she spits on the handkerchief, rubbing it into my eyes and ranting about how bad blindness is for musicians. “Stevie Wonder’s blind,” I mutter.
“Steve who?” she asks loudly. People at the crowded bar next to us turn slowly around on their bar stools to watch. “Where’re your glasses?” she demands, taking my beer and wiping it down.
“I can’t wear ’em onstage; they fall off.” More tears stream down my face, so she switches from the beer bottle back to my face.
“Father McGuire wears glasses, don’t you, Father?” Father McGuire nods and points at his glasses. Then Betty steps back and sighs, folding up her spit-kerchief. “You have to sing to people, Krissy. How can you do that if you can’t look at them?” Father McGuire nods sadly.
I hate this conversation. I hate it every time we have it. “I can’t sing, either.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “That’s no excuse! I can’t sing, never could,” she says proudly. Father McGuire shakes his head.
I squint at her through burning eyes. “What’re you talking about? Singing’s your . . . thing.”
“Nope. I just yelled with a big smile on my face!” She stuffs the folded handkerchief into her sleeve.
“Hey, like me!” I say. “Except for the smiling part.”
“Yeah,” she continues. “I gave it my all. I sold it and nobody noticed that I couldn’t sing.”
She’s gotta be lying. “You could too sing, Betty. Can I have that back?” I ask, reaching for the beer. Glancing at the bar, I notice that the line of faces is still staring.
“No, really, I couldn’t.” She studies my face. “So I sold it,” she says pointedly, gripping my beer tightly.
“Oh.” I get it. “I don’t sell it, do I?”
Betty and her priest both shake their heads. “Listen,” she says. “Show the audience how the song makes you feel. Your face is a blank when you play, dear—it’s disconcerting. You gotta show off more.” She glares at the staring drinkers who, one by one, turn back to face the bar.
Show off? That’s what that dumb opening band was doing. “I don’t show off at all,” I say quietly.
“What?” she yells, startling a nearby goth couple.
“I said, I don’t show off!” I yell back. The goth couple shuffles away. Father McGuire looks alarmed. Wiping more Tiger Balm tears off my face, I apologize. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to holler at you. I’m just nervous. I think I have to set up now. What I meant to say is”—I stand on tiptoe and whisper into her ear—“I don’t show off.”
Betty’s feeling sassy. She leans in, pressing her gleaming curls against my cheek, and whispers, too. “You said it, not me.”
“Well, it’s not about the show, it’s about the work,” I say into her cheek.
“I’m working too hard to think about anything else. Can I have my beer back? You don’t drink anymore.”
“And you don’t drink yet,” she says quietly, then straightens up and chirps, “Have fun!”
“Fun’s stupid.”
“Fun’s not stupid, it’s fun,” she says, then sing-songs, “Work plus salesmanship equals success!”
“Hmmm . . . I’ve never heard that saying before,” I grumble. Why does she always do this to me before I play? Why can’t she wait until after the show to give me shit?
Confused members of the opening band walk by on their way to the bar with Shouldn’t you be on by now? expressions. They stare, wide-eyed, at the old cowgirl and the priest before turning to order their drinks.
I look at the dressing room door. Where the hell is my band and why aren’t they rescuing me? “Playing this kind of music isn’t an exercise in showing off,” I whine quietly to Betty.
“What is it an exercise in, then?” she asks gently.
“I don’t know,” I answer, trying to sound pitiful, “. . . shame?”
“In what?” she shrieks, jumping back. Father McGuire looks sad.
I am instantly defensive. “Shame’s nothing to be ashamed of !”
She drops her jaw and stares at me for a second, then says briskly, “Oh, for the love of . . . quit that staring-into-space thing.” She pushes the beer bottle back into my hand. “You look without seeing. It hurts people’s feelings.”
“But I don’t want to see them.”
“Krissy, look at people!” To illustrate, she grabs my face and looks into my eyes fiercely. This seems to make them hurt more. “I’m telling you this for your own good. You don’t even blink when you play! It’s disturbing. Just look at the people you play for—they love you! Show them yo
u’re in love with all of them!”
I look at her, confused. “I’m not in love with any of them.”
Her mouth tightens. “All you have to do is look at people,” she says slowly. “What the hell are you afraid of ?”
“People!” Duh-uh. The weird thing is, I don’t know anyone who’s more afraid of people than Betty.
She sighs. “I knew you had to be afraid of something.” Then she pulls a tube of fire-engine-red lipstick out of her purse, grabs my chin and rubs it all over my mouth. I wish she’d stop grabbing me and rubbing me with things. Father McGuire studies the results and puts his thumbs up, nodding. “At least they’ll look at you now, Krissy,” says Betty. She stands back to admire her work and her face softens.
“It’s okay to be scared, sweetheart,” she said. “How’re you gonna give ’em your heart if you don’t have one?”
She says Al Jolson told her that, too.
♋ elizabeth june
and you were right
it was okay to be scared
My grandfather carefully parts the sheer curtains of his bedroom window on Lookout Mountain, then rests a rifle on the ledge. He stands quietly for a long time, gazing out the window at the peach trees in his backyard.
Suddenly, he fires the gun. A deafening crack and then silence.
“What did you shoot?” I ask, wide-eyed.
“A squirrel,” he says calmly. “He was after my peaches.”
Then he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and begins wiping the gun down with it. “I shoot that squirrel every day and every day he comes back for more peaches.”
People mill around the dressing room, talking, laughing and drinking. The chafing dish of horse-goat in gravy sits on the table, untouched. So does our warm orange soda. The other bands’ pitchers of beer have all been emptied, however. In the center of the commotion, my three bandmates are hunched over the set lists I wrote this afternoon. Leslie’s telling Dave the banana slug story while Tea pokes at song titles that Dave then crosses out with my magic marker. Dave is a puny little dishwater-blond like me and Tea, just a boy one; he also looks like a child.
Rat Girl: A Memoir Page 5