Mongrels and Misfits

by Beth Patterson

  Of a delicate moth blindly drawn to the light that burns it

  My body was weightless, not flesh, but of flame

  As two pairs of wings become one and the same

  But the gift of flight only comes to the man who earns it

  And I’ll carry this torch to some other place

  To keep this destruction at bay

  Dark wings beat wildly inside my ribcage

  Til it opens...and they all fly away

  Pounding heart, wings at your heels

  Mercurial eye, and tongue made of steel

  Your message is divine indeed—I can’t help but listen

  And should I fly with you to solace and space

  As a soft wing of darkness fall over my face

  Gravity will give in at last, and we will have risen

  And I’ll carry this torch to some other place

  To keep this destruction at bay

  Dark wings beat wildly inside my ribcage

  Til it opens...and they all fly away

  Your wings shine a subtle desiring dare

  Let no one rob you of the candle you bear

  For the path that you fly tonight should never be lightless

  Only take care, lest your judgement fails

  For if caught by the wings, those sparking scales

  Will cling to their fingertips, and render you flightless

  And I’ll carry this torch to some other place

  To keep this destruction at bay

  Dark wings beat wildly inside my ribcage

  Til it opens...and they all fly away

  Wishbone, wishbone, hang on tight

  As though it were enchanted

  For when it finally snaps in two

  Only one wish will be granted

  The other person stands alone

  With broken dreams to face

  Far better if that bone were never

  Touched in the first place

  Facing down the paragon,

  but I don’t wish take it

  Regardless of obsession,

  I have no desire to break it

  Oh, wise king, don’t divide the babe,

  just give it to my rival

  For I would rather lose it

  for the sake of its survival

  Wishbone, wishbone, hang on tight

  As though it were enchanted

  For when it finally snaps in two

  Only one wish will be granted

  The other person stands alone

  With broken dreams to face

  Far better if that bone were never

  Touched in the first place

  They ask me why I hang my head

  like I lost my best friend?

  For don’t I know that all bones

  turn to ashes in the end?

  I am a fractured fairytale,

  a slave to superstition

  Can broken bones be reconciled

  by breaking a tradition?

  Wishbone, wishbone, hang on tight

  As though it were enchanted

  For when it finally snaps in two

  Only one wish will be granted

  The other person stands alone

  With broken dreams to face

  Far better if that bone were never

  Touched in the first place

  Star of wonder, star of light

  Will I someday get it right?

  Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

  Can I be redeemed at all?

  Narcissism to self-loathing

  Goes the frog in prince’s clothing

  Would I go through this again?

  Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.

  Captive maiden, let down your hair

  For I choose neither truth nor dare

  The old lady looked me in the eye

  Said, “Don’t swallow that spider to catch the fly.”

  Distant warning, red alert

  All things one day cease to hurt

  For one reason or another

  Silly goose, go ask your mother

  You and your shadow

  Compelling and shy

  Full of secrets and sweet mystery

  And a beautiful vision,

  Though I can’t catch a dream,

  If I sit still enough, I might see

  And though I wasn’t searching

  For what I have found

  It could not be more perfectly planned

  So I’ll wait for that moment

  In motionless bliss

  Like a butterfly lights on my hand

  So go where you want to

  And come when you will

  Always welcome, but never confined

  For there’s plenty of room

  For you and your shadow

  In my heart, if you feel so inclined

  There’s lore to be laughed at

  And words to be said

  There are songs that are still yet unsung

  Oh, the tales ripe for telling

  As they slowly unfold

  Such perfection at the tip of your tongue

  My legs won’t support me

  I can’t catch my breath

  It escapes when your lips are on mine

  Running wild in a heartbeat

  I’ll savor one pulse

  As I’m frozen this moment in time

  So go where you want to

  And come when you will

  Always welcome, but never confined

  For there’s plenty of room

  For you and your shadow

  In my heart, if you feel so inclined

  I’m not going to try to seduce him tonight. It’s that time of the month.

  It’s that time of a big, swollen full moon in the sky, and I think it’s making us all a little nuts. As it is, I’m already irritable; I’ve had a hell of a day. Now I’ve got my bass strapped to my back in a padded gig bag tough enough to withstand a grizzly attack. Ahead of me on a hand truck, I’m pushing my rig that, when cranked at full volume, could blow the toupee off of a crooked politician. I was determined to be okay until just a second ago, when I reached for the door of the club, and some patron of the arts decided to call out, “You PLAY that thing?” I wonder if he would ever dare ask a female police officer, “You SHOOT that thing?” Grrrrrr…

  I’ve often wondered if my male bandmates get asked any of these dumb questions, but now I need to focus on more important things. The five new songs added to our repertoire that I should now be able to play without charts. What I’m supposed to tell the audience about this benefit concert for Conservation of the Red Wolf. How I’m going to discreetly get home after the show in a timely manner.

  And Rowan … just thinking of him makes my breath quicken.

  Before my eyes have a chance to adjust to the dim light of the club, I can sense him. I know without looking that he’s already behind the mixing console. But of course, he would be. His punctuality defies the musicians’ lackadaisical stereotype. But then again, Rowan is not your average anything.

  He sees me. He steps out from behind the board to help me carry my gear. His laughing dark eyes are like the new moon, and as he greets me with a kiss on the cheek, I pray that my rising temperature doesn’t accidentally singe him. “How was your day?” he gently murmurs as we hoist my gear onto the stage.

  Oh, dear GODS! I was planning on being Miss Cool, but I can’t help myself. I have all of the social graces and aplomb of a warthog in a tutu, and before I even realize it, I find myself spewing about my adventure.

  “You’re not gonna BELIEVE this. This afternoon, I was trying to drive across Camp Street, and this dude
yapping on his cellphone driving at this idiotic speed ran a stop sign. Somehow I knew he was coming, and I swerved as hard as I could, but he totally plowed into me. Luckily there was no one riding shotgun. If there had, it would have been UGLY...we’re talking major injury or death, and three generations to pay off medical expenses...” He nods sympathetically.

  “And when we got out of our cars to exchange info, he recognized me! Remember when I told you about that gig I played in the Quarter where this drunk dude loudly cursed me out for THREE SOLID HOURS from the bar, and the rest of the patrons were getting pissed, but the bartender refused to throw him out because he was tipping her so extravagantly?” I don’t wait for a response. “It was HIM, and I wanted to kill him right then and there, but I had to act rational because by that time a cop had arrived on the scene. As they were towing away my poor crumpled car, he apologized nonchalantly for ruining my vehicle and my gig, as if he’d done little more than knock over my drink. I was so mad, I was practically foaming at the mouth! So I asked him if that was all he could say, and he said that in fact, he had more he wanted to tell me. He asked me if I was aware of Armageddon and God’s Kingdom on Earth. And he pulled a PAMPHLET out of his pocket ... like I really want to be preached at by a JEHOVAH’S WITNESS!!!”

  His expression never changes. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?”

  And in a split second, I am laughing. And then I realize that while I’ve been running my mouth and emotionally barfing, he’s set up my mic, run my amp through a DI box, and materialized a guitar stand for me seemingly out of thin air. I glance at the EQ on my rig...he knows just by the sound of the room’s acoustics what settings I should use, and he’s somehow surreptitiously adjusted my tone (I’ve been known to forget to do this myself when I’m really flustered before a gig). There’s even a bottle of water for me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he was a freaking ninja.

  But I do know better.

  I wonder if he knows that I know? Or that I’m not afraid? But actually, I am afraid in a different way…I’m terrified to ask him about it. Worried about what he might think of me. And that it might ruin our friendship, not to mention any chance I might have at something more.

  It’s an extremely risky boundary to cross. It seems that many people choose to turn tail and shun the things that make them who they are. Their quirks, their flaws and foibles, their hopes, fears, and dreams. Their weaknesses and strengths. Their heritage.

  It didn’t take me long to figure Rowan out, and the fact that I seem to be the only one who has caught on is extremely unnerving to me. More than anything else.

  A beverage-enhanced voice bellows from the crowd, “Hey, miss! You gonna play us a song tonight?”

  No, actually, I’m going to land a helicopter. Deep sigh. I have to be grateful that we live on a planet with only one moon. Especially on nights like tonight, when it looks so ripe, and when it plays with the tides of our bloodstreams.

  I glance at our band’s backdrop. Even the scowling Lion of Judah looks exceptionally ferocious in this light.

  It’s that time of the month when we all become a little bit like animals, I suppose.

  * * *

  I hate checking sound while audience members are trickling in. You’re trying to get the right levels, you play a little, adjust a little, play some more, the sound person is trying to dial up the right tone and volume, trying to get you a decent monitor mix, trying to make sure everyone in the band can hear each other, and in the midst of this, someone always screams, “PLAY A SONG!!!!” You go to check your microphone (“One, two…one, two…”) and some genius shows off his intellect with “THREE, FOUR!!!” (This is why I always check my mic in Scots Gaelic.) The feedback is always the worst. The squawks and the screeches. The audience claps hands over ears, loudly moaning in protest, and of course, they all glare up at YOU.

  At least I don’t have to worry about this part when Rowan is behind the board. Most folks who have worked with him have remarked that they don’t know how he does it. It’s as though he can hear the frequencies before they even start. Not just for live sound: I also marvel at the array of sounds he gets when we’re tracking in the studio. We click flawlessly when record together, and I seldom have to ask for headphone adjustments or different levels during playback. His mixes sound almost three-dimensional. I would bet my bass that his keen auditory senses are because of what he is.

  Then again, I’ve been told that I have perfect pitch, which I really can’t explain, either. All I know is that I know what every note sounds like—like hearing the vibrations of different colors, or recognizing the qualities of different friends’ voices—which makes it much easier to pick up unfamiliar bass lines fairly quickly. (And get away with murder when I haven’t had time to study my charts.)

  Our band keeps rotating guitarists and keyboard players, as everyone in this town has to play an ungodly amount of gigs to stay fed, but all of our hired guns know the drill. Our lead singer Nigel, a menacing-looking Rasta guy, is around somewhere...he seldom makes an appearance until downbeat. Raúl the drummer and I have been working together for a number of years now on various blues, funk, and reggae gigs. I know that I can always count on him to keep everyone in line, signaling the changes with his clockwork playing.

  Even during this hurried soundcheck, I’m liking the way my tone is starting to blend with the bass drum. I take a deep breath and remember why I’ve chosen this lifestyle. Raúl shoots me a deliberately goofy grin, and I chuckle. We’re going to have fun. We always have fun when we work together. It’s going to be okay. Raúl never tells me what made him decide to settle in New Orleans, but he seems to love it here. Even though he expresses no desire to leave this crazy town, he always teases me that he’s going to steal me away and take me to his native Mozambique with him... exaggerating his accent, occasionally switching to Tsonga or Portuguese, describing his native African culture in outlandish caricature. Perhaps I would like to meet his brother? He would just eat me up. Once you go Mozambique, no other will you seek. (Or it will hurt to take a leak, or it will make your whole week...there’s a different rhyme every time he goes into this act.) Most of us musicians are a crude bunch, and Raúl’s antics never fail to get a laugh out of me. There’s a genuine harmlessness to it all, and I’m quite certain that he can sense my affections secretly lie elsewhere.

  Rowan approaches the stage, his palpable calmness radiating in every direction, soothing my frazzled nerves. I don’t like how high-strung I have become these past few years, and I marvel at how patient he’s been with me. I suddenly have to suppress the urge to reach out and stroke his short-cropped black hair, to trace my fingertip along that fetching widow’s peak of his. I can barely bring myself to look him in the eye, for fear that I would drown in the dark intensity of his gaze. I desperately want to bury my nose in the hollow of his throat and breathe in his scent. Would he taste spicy, like his blended heritage--of cayenne and gumbo and chiles and cinnamon? Would he mind how lunar-white my skin might appear against the “café au lait” hue of his own? Sometimes I feel as though he would understand me better than anyone on this planet...and I am terrified that I would be crushed if I were wrong.

  I haven’t had a real confidante since my childhood. And although I love having a fair amount of solitude in my tiny one-bedroom apartment, I sometimes feel as though if I weren’t playing gigs all the time, I would have no social interaction at all. Growing up in a small town means that “different” is a fighting word, and nearly all my life I’ve been misunderstood. Now I’ve become so focused on my musical career, it’s left me little time for anything else, and I’ve come to like it that way. In the music world, I am often deemed by my peers as “one of the guys,” as opposed to a prissy little diva, but it’s not the same as having an inner circle of trusted friends. And even still, I’m convinced that if most of my peers could see inside my head, they would reject me. Some of us are meant to just
be alone... but I would let Rowan into my life if I could.

  I sometimes fancy him my knight in shining armor…thwarting feedback, slaying too much high end, defending me from guitar solos that would make the ears bleed. And yes, at the end of all of my fantasies, he sweeps me away in his shining truck to the nearest hotel room, where it’s like Christmas day and I’m wearing only a bright red bow made of...

  “Need anything?” he asks.

  “Rowan, I really need to talk to you before—” His phone goes off. He frowns at the screen, holds up an index finger to tell me to hold that thought, and walks briskly into the shadows. Another deep sigh. Soundcheck is over and the real show is about to begin. He always manages to vanish from every venue before midnight, leaving the other techs to tear down the equipment and pack it all away. But this isn’t over. Before the end of the gig, I’ll be tracking him down.

  * * *

  Now that there’s nothing left for me to do except catch the other acts and wait my turn to go play, I have to step outside for a spell. Hanging out in the employees’ parking lot helps me clear my head, even in the humid evening air. Flanked by the back ends of adjacent businesses, it’s a good, private little spot to prepare mentally before a show, and with three other bands sharing the billing with us tonight, the green room is a little too crowded for my taste right now. The sun begins to set over the defiant buildings: intricate wrought iron balconies interspersed with the occasional potted fern contrasting with the rugged walls. We haven’t had much rain yet this season, so the mosquito population isn’t too awful tonight. I lean against the sun-warmed bricks and begin to relax.