Mongrels and Misfits

by Beth Patterson

  I liked the second band, actually. There was a theremin player who managed to blend the odd retro sounds reminiscent of old black and white space movies with the West African rhythms of the djembe player and the mad groove of the cellist. I didn’t want them to stop, and I don’t know why they were sandwiched in between Maestro Dude Holstein and this dung heap of noise currently playing. The second act really should have been the headliners, even though our band has the most members. The promoter of this benefit may love raising money to save the earth’s creatures, but is not the tightest head on the drum when it comes to organizing concerts.

  We have 45 minutes before this excruciating third act leaves the stage and we start. I remember to breathe. I had told Sylvia everything, and if there’s one thing I don’t have to worry about, it’s her ability to keep secrets.

  * * *

  She had confirmed my trust in her when I had gone to see her those few days ago.

  “So, let me get this straight,” she said. “This guy you’re lusting after is a werewolf? What makes you so sure? Do you know anything at all about werewolves?”

  I couldn’t look her in the eye. I hadn’t seen her in forever, and just swooping in on her like this made me suddenly feel like a complete idiot. To boot, in spite of my sailor mouth in my daily life, talking about lust on church grounds suddenly made me feel uncomfortable. But I could always tell her anything. We were, after all, the ones who spent our teenage years secretly swapping horror novels, playing Light As A Feather, and sitting up all night with Mountain Dew and the ouija board in her family’s game room. My parents were always so preachy about hellfire and damnation, and I didn’t trust many of the other girls not to let my curiosity slip to them.

  Once we reached the tenth grade, Sylvia was no longer allowed to spend the night after my folks walked in and caught us watching a bootleg video of The Howling (courtesy of Sylvia’s older sister in exchange for Sylvia’s silence about an oddly-shaped compact accidentally discovered in her sister’s purse). And then her family suddenly moved to another city without warning, and I saw my best friend no more. Luckily, we reconnected on the New Orleans music scene in our twenties. One blessed night, I was setting up as the house bass player for the weekly blues jam at the Kiwi Inn (nicknamed thusly for the most commonly heard phrase: “Brah, what key we in?”). I thought I was hallucinating to suddenly see my childhood companion grinning at me from behind the keyboard, and we were finally able to briefly catch up as adults. Often playing in the same lineups, it was as if no time had passed, and soon we had resumed trading books and swapping sick jokes before shows.

  But dear gods! I wish I’d been able to confide in her more in our youth before she was swept off to who-knows-where. I had had so many doubts and fears. Music. Boys. Our rapidly changing bodies. Things that go bump in the night. And then as adults, we hadn’t had a chance to get together outside of the gig circuit before she decided she’d had enough of it all, joining the Church, and leaving many a confused young man in the dust.

  I took a deep breath and tried. “You know we were having this discussion once as kids, remember? My parents wouldn’t even let me TALK about any kinds of paranormal gobbledygook, unless I wanted to spend an eternal afterlife being roasted like a high school freshman at band camp.” The floodgates were suddenly open, and the words wouldn’t stop pouring out. “My grandma understood, though... She was never preachy, and she had the best lullabyes and stories to feed my imagination. Scottish folktales she had learned from her own grandmother, sagas she invented in her head to entertain me, and even local legends. In fact, she was trying to tell me some sort of story about werewolves once... it was about something that was rumored to have happened in her village when she was a little girl...” I didn’t even bother to blink back tears. “And now I have to wonder if I’m crazy! What if I’m imagining everything about this guy I’m so desperately in love with? Or even worse, if—” I started to choke up, unable to finish.

  She knew there was only so much I could take at once, and eased into a teasing tone. “Oh, no, you don’t! I see where this is going! Girl gets nun to intervene with werewolf. You know these things NEVER go well for the churchy-types. Sorry. We BOTH saw The Exorcist, and if you think I’m gonna risk my habit on some sort of wild goose chase, you’ve got another thing coming! Ten Hail Marys for your outlandish request!” She grinned.

  I was relieved to have a chance to change the subject. “Why DID you choose this? I don’t get it. You’re the most killer progressive rock keyboard player I know, you’re drop-dead gorgeous, and you suddenly just quit the music scene to go completely recluse...in the most extreme way possible?”

  She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Couldn’t handle the late nights. You know me…it was taking a toll on my body. After midnight, I turn into a pumpkin. The harassment, the verbal abuse, the smoke, the lights, the sound, the crowds, the stalkers…there’s only so much a gal can stand. Now I never have to worry about my next meal, I sure as HELL don’t…” She checked herself. “I don’t have to think about what I’m going to wear,” she continued with a rueful grin. “And look at the size of the ORGAN I get to pl—”

  “Well, hello, there!”

  I jumped. I had been so caught up in Sylvia’s rant, I hadn’t noticed Father O’Flaherty strolling across the lawn towards us.

  “Well, if it isn’t our little rock star come to pay a visit to her friend! I hope ye won’t let another few years go by before ye visit us again!” he boomed. I squirmed silently. Sylvia shot me a reassuring nod to imply that he hadn’t heard our conversation.

  “Tell me, my child, could ye give us an honest opinion of this song?” he cajoled. As clergy and performers often do, we both spontaneously turned on the charm for each other.

  “I’d be delighted,” I brightly replied.

  “Sister Jean-Baptiste, would you do the honors?” Sylvia nodded demurely, and we went back into the sanctuary, where Sylvia settled at the organ once more.

  The opening bars of “The Fields of Athenry” had just enough biting flair to make me genuinely smile. Father O’Flaherty didn’t really seem like a bad guy, just terribly effusive, and his velvety Irish tenor voice had been known to make more than one little old parishioner commit adultery in her heart.

  He ended the third chorus with an octave jump on the last note and held it for a small eternity. I took this as my cue to stand up in the pew and clap enthusiastically. He gave me a sweeping bow.

  “We are all so lucky to have such a fine musician as Sister Jean-Baptiste amongst us,” he crooned. “This absolves her of the more tedious duties, such as washing the dishes and polishing the silver...she says that would soften her callouses and then she wouldn’t be able to play.”

  But you don’t need callouses to play keyboard instruments ... Sylvia’s eye just barely twinkled, and I silently commended her for her outrageous excuse. As such an old soul that she seemed to be, she detested grunt work, and she always had a particular aversion to things like making beds, sweeping, washing dishes, and especially polishing silver.

  More pleasantries exchanged, and Father O’Flaherty was off to oversee the groundskeeping. I exhaled hard.

  I shook my head, incredulous. “Why did you trade this wild life for daily interaction with that old buffoon?”

  She smiled serenely from the piano bench. “Because he’s completely clueless. Or if he’s not, he’s smart enough to ask no questions. New recruits to the convent are rare, and all he knows is that I need some sort of sanctuary, and that I’m the best organist he’s ever had.” She twisted her mouth in a wry smile. I could tell she was struggling very hard not to crack a coarse joke. Just the fact that she was thinking about it reassured me that this was the very same person I had always loved, even underneath the odd garb she had chosen to wear in her new life.

  She paused to caress the black and white keys thoughtfully. “Plus, I need time to think. I’ve
struggled very hard trying to come to grips with what I am, and I do know that I’m more than just a frustrated keyboard player who would rather be playing songs like “Roundabout” by Yes in the big clubs than “Jump” by Van Halen on Bourbon Street. And...I feel as though I might be able to do some good for...my fellow human beings.” She sighed deeply, staring out through the stained glass window, its rays splashing her face with surreal colors.

  “Believe it or not, I actually like this habit,” she continued, more seriously now. “I feel as though I’m finally in hiding, just peering out into the backyard of the world to confirm that indeed it holds no place for me anymore. And then I go back to feeding the hungry, teaching kids about how to be kind, and playing the organ. Father O’Flaherty may be a little slow, but he lets me play all I want, and all he asks in return is for me to help him let off some steam by playing a few old Irish songs for him to sing along with every now and again. He knows nothing about me, which is probably why he likes me...but I think at the heart of the matter, he’s a kind man.” She threw out her arms, proudly displaying her habit. “This getup...it allows me to go out in public, and people seem to give me a lot more personal space. In a world where faith is in stiff competition with the ever-growing ego, it still commands a little respect when I go out into the world...even a music venue. Especially at an event that is intended to raise money for the conservation of one of God’s creatures.” She winked.

  “So...you’ll be at the gig this weekend?” I pleaded.

  “You can count on it.”

  * * *

  We’re up now, and it’s showtime.

  I’m been psychologically revving myself up for this moment. Now it’s as if my frustrating day never even happened, and I feel a warm glow in my belly. Rowan’s obsidian eyes are shining behind the board. I can see Sylvia sitting at the bar, wearing her full habit and beaming at me. I have already thought of a million punchlines to this scenario, and I can tell by the glint in her eye that so has she. A few curious young men begin to cluster around her, but she shoos them away with a comically stern glower. Friendly Teddy has already struck up a conversation with her, and the two are chatting like old friends. He is trying to keep a straight face at her theatrics before turning to me and giving me a thumbs-up, that huge chin of his turning on the full force of his generous grin.

  Now is not the time to think about future gigs, paying bills, or even Rowan. Raúl starts us off with a mighty cadence across the tom toms.

  Time to let go.

  My bass is a comfort in my hands, the thick strings gliding under my fingers, the familiar weight balanced across my shoulder, and the smoothness of the body leaning into my right side like a favorite dance partner. I forget to be worried, and let myself ease into the pocket. Sometimes guitar and keys take the reins together in riddim, sometimes bass and drums together in dub. We all close in together and raise our voices. The vocal harmonies are especially tight tonight. We are all just a bunch of misfits come together, creating a sound. It’s who we are.

  Many people, including voodoo drummers, Jesuits, and music therapists, have told me that repetition of rhythm can induce a trancelike state. You can also see this in mantras for meditation. These riddims certainly have gotten me into another universe altogether. In reggae, there is no showmanship allowed for a bass player. Just create solid bass lines without variation, and pay attention to the spaces between the notes as well.

  The songs seem to fly, one right after another...I can’t believe how quickly the set is going. The mix is intoxicating. I can feel a frequency thrumming down my spine from the base of my skull to my tailbone, playing my body like a vibrating string. It feels so sweet and delicious...I shiver with pleasure and surrender completely to the groove. It carries me like a steady river, and I navigate through it easily in the boat of my musical mind.

  The lapse between my heartbeat and the pulse roaring in my ears creates a complex polyrhythm. Not only that, but the faint sound of the other players’ hearts adds to this vibe...just bass and drums now, and it’s a huge heartbeat.

  LUB, DUB ... LUB ... DUB ...

  Too soon we’re coming to our final crescendo, and now it’s my turn to shine. Solos for bass aren’t often called for in this kind of music, but I’ve just been given a cue. I’ve never taken a bass solo quite like this. The notes just choose themselves. My beats ever so slightly behind the solid bass drum, some sort of door has been opened. It’s as if I just haven’t been paying attention all my life...until now. I’m beginning to hear partials, overtones, harmonics, and all sorts of dimensions that I somehow should have known were there all along. I don’t know how Rowan is coaxing a sound like this out of me.

  Rowan. He’s not behind the board.

  I glance into the audience. Teddy is looking worriedly at me. Sylvia is pacing like a caged animal. In spite of their suden concern, they look so hilarious somehow, I let out an involuntary bark of laughter. I must forgotten to shave my legs this morning...why is this occurring to me now? My knees begin to bend into a slight crouch, and my stomach does a sudden lurch. I’ve lost the groove. Or has the groove lost me? Something’s wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Someone in here is afraid, and it stinks...pungent and sickly. But why? And of what? The audience seems oblivious, but the keyboard player and guitarist start inching away from me. Even tough-talking Nigel looks uncomfortable.

  I feel the kickdrum through the floor. It appears that Raúl is just going to close us out with a drum solo. Not at all the way we rehearsed the set, but it seems like a great spontaneous idea, and the crowd is digging it. I let my solo fade, and Rowan is suddenly appearing from the backstage shadows—unseen by the throng that is now transfixed by Raúl—and silently leading me by the arm back into the wings. The mere notion that his hands are on me at last makes me giddy beyond description. He wordlessly slips a pair of shades on me. Oh, my, I’m a CELEBRITY now... I lean my bass against one of the equipment cases and follow like an obedient little lamb.

  He leads me down the corridor towards the back exit. The music is still singing in my blood, and I’m savoring the feel of Rowan’s fingers on my arm. The sensation of the tiniest bit of his skin against my own is electrifying, and his body feels turbocharged with energy, which seems to flow into me through his firm grip. My tongue lolls out of the side of my mouth in pleasure. In spite of my dizziness, I haven’t had a drop of alcohol tonight (although I had been planning on a few glasses of celebratory post-gig wine). Another power surge from Rowan’s touch, and I start laughing deliriously again.

  We’re in the employee parking lot. The whole area seems oddly deserted, as if invisible to everyone but us.

  “What the hell was that just now?”

  I’ve never heard him raise his voice before. “Rowan ...” I mumble weakly.

  “I don’t have much time. Tell me what’s going on with you. You need to be honest with me if we’re going to keep working together like this!”

  “Rowan ... I need ... to shpeak wif you ...” I can’t even get the words out. The moon is so bright that even through the shades, the parking lot nearly looks like a weirdly-shadowed afternoon.

  “I’m not asking you again. Come clean this instant, or I’m leaving right now.”

  “Rowan!” I can feel his body heat, breathe in his richly alluring scent, and I can no longer resist. It’s now or never. Mustering up all of my courage, I take a huge, deep breath until my lungs creak. I can feel my chest expand, my spine stretch. In one frantic moment, I’ve stripped off my clothes and dropped to all fours. My hands are padded before they even hit the ground, with a click of claws on the pavement. My pale coat shines white in the moonlight.

  And there he is beside me ...our noses touching, tails wagging. I rear up onto my hind legs in utter joy. He licks my muzzle.

  And then the others appear. Big, gray Teddy with his powerful furry jaw. Raúl with his mottled coat and huge rounded ea
rs, closer in appearance to an African wild dog, his shining white teeth parted in a lupine grin. Soft, slender Sylvia, still wearing that damned wimple held in place by her pointed ears, most likely intended to ease any shock I might feel over this huge revelation. “We thought you’d NEVER come out of the den!” she snorts.

  I am too relieved to be incredulous. I wonder how long they’ve known. Or why I never caught on about Sylvia, Teddy, and Raúl. Have I really been THAT self-absorbed all this time? Or so myopic in my feelings for Rowan that I had a nose for only him? Did I really believe that by burying myself in my music career I could stall my fear and denial about my true nature forever? How did the others find the courage to reveal themselves to each other? Which of them were born into it, and which ones were chosen? I want to understand, almost as badly as I want to be understood at long last. I have so much to learn from this newfound pack of mine.

  I fix my gaze on Rowan, his dark widow’s peak markings framing his intelligent eyes—now golden, but every bit as smoldering. Someday...maybe someday, hopefully, when we’re laughing over a glass of wine in his den, or even—fingers crossed!—lying in bed together, I’ll tell him, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to sniff my butt!” But now is not the time for joking. And 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 it’s time to gather together in a different kind of intimacy. I look around, but there’s still no one else in sight.