Too Weird for Ziggy

by Sylvie Simmons

  She was enraged. “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time and I’m sorry you decided to talk to Robbie, Chas, and Johnnie and get their hopes up. But they know how I feel about it. There is no band. There never can be. When Taylor died, Pussy died.”

  She could feel Jack stiffen. She turned around. His face looked strange. “I’m sorry, sweetheart” was all he said.

  Buddha Boy took both her hands and rolled himself forward so that his round mouth almost touched her ear.

  “Taylor is up for it too.”

  “What did you say?” Her cheeks reddened. “That is not funny.” She turned to her manager. “Let’s go.” Jack was sitting, rigid, in his chair. Under the bright halogen, his tan had turned a purply gray.

  “Come on,” she said. “We’ll find another label. That is so sick.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, “truly I am. I only just found out myself.”

  “Found out what?” she screamed.

  “They tracked him down and flew him out. He got in yesterday.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Taylor’s alive. They’re in the studio. We weren’t”—he shot the A&R man a hostile look—“going to even talk about this before …”

  The words ceased to register. Just lips moving; plaintive sounds. The room was churning. In a single moment, the thoughts and questions and images coalesced and a great clump of vomit shot from her mouth. Buddha Boy rolled his chair out of range, untouched. She puked voluminously, violently, over herself, over the giant surfboard. A couple of people looked away. Buddha Boy sat and watched her. Jack jumped up, held out his arms.

  “Get the fuck away from me!”

  “She’s upset,” he announced, ludicrously. “Look, I think it’s best if you give us some time alone?”

  Buddha Boy nodded, “Okay, everyone, we’ll take five.” Some of the people around the table seemed unable to move. “Come on!” he ordered, and strode ahead of them. As, one by one, they joined him, his secretary came over to where Pussy sat, carrying a stack of extra-large promotional T-shirts. She tossed one over the biggest pool of puke and put the rest on the chair next to Pussy. “The rest room’s out of the door, second left,” she said softly. “If you need anything, we’ll be two rooms along,” then followed everyone out.

  Pussy sat up straight. Her face was scary; even her lips were white.

  “Where is he?”

  “In the studio, Burbank. The rest of the guys are there. We’ll go over as soon as we’re out of here. Or maybe you want to see him somewhere on your own first? Whatever you want, just say it. I swear to you, Terri, I didn’t want this to happen.” His eyes were pleading. She’d seen that face so often before on men who were desperate to fuck her.

  She stood up. Her legs were shaking. Her silk dress was gummed to her with sick.

  “Can I get you some water? A drink?”

  Ignoring him, she peeled off her dress, folded it, and put it on the table. She was naked except for her shoes. He didn’t look away. She took an oversized T-shirt from the clean pile and pulled it on. Cal West’s big round face on the front of the shirt smiled quizzically up at her. The shirt almost touched her knees; Taylor’s resurrection seemed to have shrunk her. “I’m going to get cleaned up,” she said, picking up her bag. Jack moved to come with her. “I don’t need your help.” On the way to the door she passed the shelf where the woman had found the shirts. Grabbing a promo baseball cap bearing the logo “Shoot 2 Kill,” Pussy walked out.

  At the end of the corridor in the stairwell, she piled her sticky hair on top of her head and jammed on the baseball cap, back to front. She might have been a teenage boy. She went down the stairs, into the lobby, and past the receptionist, who didn’t give her a second look. Out in the street she jaywalked the busy road to the shopping center opposite, lighting a cigarette as she walked. On a low wall at the back of the car park, she sat smoking fiercely, cigarette after cigarette, blowing out thick chutes of smoke at disapproving passersby. Reeve’s card was still stuck there in the cellophane. She dialed his private line.

  Five cigarettes later, the limo pulled up. Reeve jumped out and opened the back door.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  She’d assumed, when she called him, that she would go to Taylor. She changed her mind.

  “The fuck out,” she answered.

  “You got it,” he said, swerving around and heading for the exit. Saint Dymphna danced on her chain.