by Alix Strauss
I already know about Lou. I know about her problems, her music, her love life. Her CDs sit on my shelf, her songs already transferred into my iPod. The poorly written unauthorized biography some failed music critic wrote about her a few years back is on my nightstand. But I let Honor fill me in, let her think she’s educating me.
“She doesn’t know, yet, so please, until I’m able to—” Honor stops talking as a tall, frantic-looking woman rushes over.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says, kissing Honor quickly on the cheek. A wave of cigarette odor mixed with stale beer washes over me. The host trails behind, trying to catch up, not sure if this woman is friend or foe. He raises an eyebrow to me.
“Lou, would dressing up for lunch be too much to ask?” Honor says, looking around the restaurant while handing her a menu. Her drink is almost drained, the two remaining olives sit in shallow liquid.
“A late evening thing last night turned into a late morning thing and I didn’t know the Four Seasons was so fucking fancy.”
“Well, it is,” Honor says in a huff, then introduces us.
Lou arrives for my hand quickly, receptively. I feel the coarseness of her skin, the coolness of her silver rings against my fingers. Rock star quality is written all over her, from the leather jacket to the black T-shirt to the dark jeans, which are teasingly torn at her knee and fraying at the ankles, exposing just the right amount of her clunky black boots. Her lips are painted a deep purple and the color matches her chipped, painted nails. Her wild big brown eyes have a craziness to them, like spinning marbles, and I wonder if she’s on something now. Her dry brown hair is long and messy, the exact opposite of Honor’s, and I wonder what drew them to each other. What bond keeps them together?
Lou is surprisingly attractive, though weathered. Her voice, as scratchy as Demi Moore’s, is as low and gravelly as you’d envision any rock star who’s drunk too much bourbon, smoked too many cigarettes, and screeched through too many songs.
I look to Honor and can’t yet see the connection. Honor in her leopard Chanel dress. Honor with the Hermes belt, the Gucci watch, the Jimmy Choo shoes. Lou’s probably never had a savings account, hasn’t paid her taxes in years, and still wears jeans as old as her music career.
“You drinking that?” Lou asks me, removing her jacket, revealing the T-shirt that says FLY BY NIGHT. She sports a worn-in suede bag, which she takes off and swings onto the back of her chair. She sits and reaches for a bread basket, removes a sesame-seeded cracker, and chews quickly.
“No, please, it’s all yours.” I steal a quick glace at Honor who seems less than pleased.
“Awesome.” She goes for my drink, the glass in her hand like a magnet.
I fight the urge to excuse myself and make a call just to let someone, anyone, know I’m sitting at a table in between two icons. I think how my sister would have loved this. Loved the idea of this.
The waiter appears with the feta and beet salad appetizers, and takes Lou’s order: cheddar burger, onion rings, and a second martini.
For the next ten minutes Lou talks about her new business venture, a line of liquor-and-skull-themed T-shirts and jewelry. She’s so likable that I want to slip her a note jotted down on a hotel napkin like the song lyrics Bowie brought Honor, prepare her for what’s in store.
“It was either start a line of clothing or jewelry”—Lou tells me, martini glass raised to her lips and half gone—“or do this coffee-table book thing I’ve been kicking around.” I look to Honor and her expression tells me this is the first she’s hearing of it.
“I want to take pictures while on my back”—visions of men’s faces and body parts run across my eyes—“in a variety of places.” She looks at me. “Not a sex book, a real book. Like the park, a dirty restroom, on a plane, lying on a beach in Hawaii, and then I’d pair the pictures with essays. If I can write lyrics, I sure as shit can write a few stories.” She finishes my drink but has yet to put the glass down. “I just don’t know what I’d call it.”
“What about Back Story?”
They both turn to me.
“I like her,” Lou says, finally resting the glass.
“She’s quick, I’ll give you that,” Honor smirks.
I could do what you do, I think. I could leave the hotel business and work for you. Maybe that’s what I need. A change of scenery. If they can erase Anne so quickly, anyone could be next.
Good-girl salads are swept away and replaced with Lou’s burger and my and Honor’s salmon and couscous.
“The band I was in before going solo was called Horse House because one of the girls was an attendant at a stable, which was weird because she kind of looked like a horse,” Lou animatedly tells me. “I only joined because I loved the name. It was primal and angry and rhymed. Any who, her father wanted her to be a vet or something but she just wanted to rock out. I hated her, but she was a total noodler and could play like nobody’s business. And she could book a tour.”
The waiter delivers Lou’s second drink and reaches for her empty glass. He asks how we’re enjoying the food, and we all nod politely and tell him it’s very good.
Lou keeps talking in between bites of her burger. “Then I find out her job at the stable is to clean up the shit. And the horses hate her so much they kick poo at her.”
I laugh so hard bits of couscous fly out of my mouth. Lou jostles me with her arm like we’re old friends. Honor looks uncomfortable. Her lips become tightly pressed together, and she looks away, as if she’s searching the room for someone.
“So she starts complaining and coming to practice smelling of shit, and I said, ‘Let’s change the name to Horse Shit,’ which pissed her off and she got mad and kicked me out of the band.” Lou downs her second drink, then looks for the waiter and once she has his attention, nods for another.
“Just because of one suggestion?” I ask.
“Well, there were rumors I was drunk onstage.” She grips my shoulder with one hand and points at me with her other. “Rumors, Morgan. Rumors I tell you.” The twinkle in her eyes and the grin on her face says differently.
Honor places a hand on top of Lou’s, more to calm her down, and softly says, “Take a breath.”
“Throwing me out was the best thing because I found my way to Hit Me Harder, which made me popular and famous.” The third drink arrives, the second glass is removed.
“Just not with the Battered Wives Association…”
Honor looks up at me, her glasses are perched on her nose, her lips curling up slightly.
“You’re funny,” Lou tells me. “Tomorrow night the Knitting Factory is celebrating the year 1990 with a salute to rock stars who were big at that time,” Lou states. “People dress up like their favorite performer and lip-synch to their songs. Some famous drag queen emcees and there are prizes. Honor and I are going. You should come.” She looks at me, then to Honor, who nods noncommittally.
“Lou,” she says, “we’re only going for two reasons: audience recognition of you and their reaction. Once we’ve established that, we can make calls to the papers and TV stations.”
Lou rolls her eyes. “It’s my last hoorah before I do a nice little stay at a very nice little hotel.” She winks at me. “Like this one?”
Silence emanates from all three of us and is only broken when Lou stands.
“I’ve got to pee.”
Honor and I watch her walk away, her boots clonking on the marble, her hips swaying right to left, her hair swinging in sync with her body until she disappears down the steps.
“That went better than I thought.” Honor takes a deep sigh. “Look, she’s charming, but she’s as addictive as the drugs she on. It’s very likely she’s doing a line in your restroom, so don’t be fooled. I want progress reports. No one visits her without my approval. I want to meet the person in charge of housekeeping, and interview whoever will be cleaning her room. Is that understood? I don’t want any press. No photos, no calls, take the phone out if you have to. Don’t worry, you’ll be compensat
ed greatly…”
Is she going to slip me a check? Put some cash in an envelope? Write my boss a note on her very pretty, expensive Smyth-son stationery? “It’s fine. It’s what I do. She’ll go unnoticed.”
“It’s decided then,” she says slapping the table, pleased, like she’s bought something at an auction after being caught in a bidding war. “I love her, but she can just suck you dry. At forty-four she’s too old for this shit. I’m too old to deal with her shit,” she adds, her words almost getting lost as she turns her head to answer the phone.
Lunch lasts longer than I anticipated and by the time I return to my office I have ninety-three e-mails, sixteen phone messages, and am late for a meeting with the woman who replaced Anne. I forgo a random room inspection and instead sit in my office listening to Bernard’s long-winded message about how I’ve hurt him and what a terrible person I am to ruin something wonderful, and to please have his things packed by tomorrow morning so he can have his friend, who owns a car, pick them up. I return his call and am so thankful when his machine clicks on. His slow, overenunciated outgoing message confirms my decision to break up. And by the time I hear him say, “Remember, there’s always something good to wine about, so leave a message and number…” I’m practically crawling out of my skin waiting for the beep.
At 6:00 p.m. I gather myself and head out for the night. The hotel’s bar is abuzz with suits and ties, women in black tops and matching slacks or tight skirts, out-of-towners who look out of place, and a handful of bridge-and-tunnelers. Others are milling about in the lobby, waiting for friends or co-workers, a few couples are holding hands while checking in. A group of Europeans is speaking Italian loudly by the steps of the lobby restaurant as they decide where to go tonight.
I’m behind the desk closing out the day’s reservations when I see Trish walking toward me. “Hey, what are you doing here?” I ask, thinking perhaps she wanted a last-minute drinking partner.
“Oh, I was…I was just…” she looks around the hotel. “I went to put the key thing in the door and it didn’t light up or unlock.” She hands over the plastic card.
“I’m so sorry.” I reach for a new one. “What’s your number?”
“Twenty-three seventeen.”
“A corner room, nice.” I log in the number electronically, swipe it through the computer, and hand it back. “I didn’t know you were staying here. If you want, we could do breakfast tomorrow or a drink later.”
“I don’t know if I’m staying the night. It’s my friend’s room. He’s in from out of town.” She looks at her watch, then around the hotel again and arrives back at me.
I search for something in her eyes, as if she’s trying to send a mental signal, or perhaps I am. Please share something personal. I swear, I won’t tell anyone. It would be great to bond over something. So I divulge instead. I want to tell her about Ellen, but it hurts too much, and I want to share this with her over coffee, or drinks, something more intimate. So I tell her about Bernard instead, about packing up Anne’s belongings that she left behind, only to have to go home and do the same with his things, and though she seems interested she is clearly distracted.
“I’m having drinks with an old friend and we thought, well, if one thing leads to another, perhaps we might, I don’t know.” She smiles embarrassedly. “I just got here a bit early.”
I’m in midnod when I see my uncle push through the revolving doors. I see the way Trish’s facial expression changes from shyness to shock, mirroring the way Marty looks at both of us. Suddenly I know why the room number is familiar. I raise my hand to wave and realize Trish is doing the same thing, making us look like rejects from a Miss America contest.
“There he is.”
My attention snaps back to her. Her lips are pressed tightly together, her body stiff. I return to relying on my psychic powers. Please, don’t do this. Don’t go into a room with him. But as I search for my voice Marty is at an open elevator waiting for her to enter.
“If you want to do breakfast tomorrow, let me know,” I say. “Thanks. I’d introduce you but he seems anxious to…”
“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
I watch her walk toward my uncle, watch him raise an eyebrow to me, then the doors close and they’re gone.
At home I pack Bernard’s belongings like eggs, carefully and with kindness. I fold his WINE DRINKERS MAKE BETTER LOVERS T-shirt, aware of how soft and worn it is. How it still smells of his cologne. I’m wearing the back brace and its solidness is a welcoming pleasure. Unlimited Lou’s Greatest Hits pours from my stereo. I let the machine pick up the calls, let the two drinks I’ve had start to kick in, let myself become slightly unhinged as I sing loudly, trying to match Lou’s sandpaper voice. I want this, I tell myself as I bubble wrap the bottles of wine, lay them gently in the cardboard box I picked up at the liquor store. “I want to be with someone else,” I say aloud to Dale, as I seal his toiletries—toothbrush, razor, shaving cream, dental floss, special soap for sensitive skin—into a freezer-size Ziploc bag. Only after his musical theater CDs, books on wine, clothing, cigars, and whatnot have been packed into two boxes and one duffel bag and are brought downstairs and left with the doorman, just as requested, can I go to sleep.
I lay in my dark bedroom trying to picture Marty and Trish having sex in room 2317. I wonder where Bernard is tonight. If he’s sleeping. I wonder how long it will take Anne to find another job. If Lou’s snorting coke at some dirty after-hours bar. If my sister is watching over me. If I can go back to being single.
Chapter 5
Morgan
An Off-Site Event
As promised, Honor e-mails me the information for the rock ‘n’ roll event tonight, and I find myself dressed up and giddy, standing in front of Lou’s apartment on the Lower East Side, waiting for her to buzz me in. The building is old and industrial looking, a mismatch on a block outlined with trees and flowers, small specialty shops, and cozy, kitschy restaurants.
After buzzing Lou two more times, I work my way down the list, my index finger hitting a different mini black button every second. I hear a faint click and pull the colossal door open.
The entranceway is painted a dark green that matches the insides of the elevator. I enter the creaky run-down contraption and only after fighting with the metal gate that one must manually open and close can I travel upward.
I find Lou standing in her corridor on the fifth floor tapping a mini vile of white powder onto her hand. Startled, she looks up at me. I’m still inside the elevator, the gate is closed, and I peer through it as if she’s on exhibit at the zoo. She’s dressed in a short, tattered snakeskin skirt, brown boots, white T-shirt, and a pink furry vest.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got some green monster to bring down the white lady,” she assures me, taking a final snort. “Hey, don’t tell Honor, okay?” She steps inside, pulls the wrought iron gate shut, and we ride down in silence.
Once outside, we see Honor smoking by her car, waiting for us.
“I was pleasantly surprised my name wasn’t on Page Six this morning,” she says, a ream of gray cloud escaping from her flawlessly painted lips.
“That’s really not my style,” I state.
“That’s nice to know.” She takes another drag and exhales, then flicks her cigarette. Red flakes fall like specks of rain. She extends her hand, indicating I’m to get in, and when I catch her looking at Lou, she shakes her head slightly.
Fifteen minutes later we pull up in front of the Knitting Factory in Brooklyn where a line of overzealous, overdressed partygoers spills off the sidewalk, onto the street, and around the corner. I spot several Madonnas, two haggard-looking Janet Jacksons, lots of Sinéad O’Connors, some MC Hammers, a few Billy Idols, and some scary-looking Milli Vanillis as we enter into sheer madness. I feel as though I’ve stumbled into a bad costume party thrown by a fraternity house. It’s dark and smoky and smells of wet paint mixed with hairspray and Mr. Clean. Drag queens outnumber everyone by a 3 to 1 rati
o, and have clearly mastered the art of dress up. Outfits range from tastefully elaborate to white-trash ugly. Honor plows through the swarm of people and creates a spot for us at the bar.
It’s wall-to-wall mock rock stars as far as the eye can see. Huge billboards with the hits of the year remind us who and what songs made the charts. Madonna’s “Vogue,” Billy Idol’s “Cradle of Love,” and Phil Collins’s “Another Day in Paradise” are in the top five. Number four is Unlimited Lou’s “I’ll Do It Tomorrow.” I think back to where I was thirteen years ago as a sharp pain of reality sets in that I’m going to be thirty-three next month. Nostalgia pulls up a heavy seat next to me and I have a huge desire to run out of the club and curl up in the fetal position at home until my life is where I want it to be.
Honor orders three Grey Goose vodka tonics. Lou clinks glasses with her, then with me. I reach for Honor’s glass to touch but she’s already brought the drink to her mouth. A woman dressed as Lisa Stansfield is lip-synching onstage to “Been Around the World.” Her actions are perfectly mimicked, the look an exact replica of the forgotten star.
“I love this song,” Lou says, downing her cocktail, slamming the empty glass on the bar, and dragging Honor and I onto the dance floor with the mob of others. It’s a tight fit with little room to move.
It only takes Lou a second to feel the music. Her movements are quick and funky—a snap of the head, an outstretched hand, a flick of the wrist, a jut of the hip, a bend in the knee…all her, all here. She’s mesmerizingly sexy.
I turn and am surprised to see Honor dancing as well. Her lips are pressed together Mick Jagger style, her eyes are slightly squinty as if she knows a secret she’s not willing to share. Though her actions are more stilted, movements small, calculated, and particular, they are classically controlled, full of style, and exude an air of sophistication and hipness that belong only to her. At fifty-something, Honor is the quintessential, stylish woman of power I long to be at her age.