We raise our glasses and drink to the guy with the unkempt beard, plaid flannel shirt, ratty jeans, and Berkinstocks while Mr. Can't-Be-Bothered stays focused on his business associate. The luscious cocktail slides down, and it's time to walk home before the self-loathing I've kept at bay kicks in. It's not easy to be me, and as much as I love who I am, sometimes my resolve falters.
I begin to stand. "Well, it's been a long week. I'm off to—" My heel hits a splash of whisky from the earlier incident and twists under me, sending me downward. I'm barely able to break my fall by slamming my hands onto the table. I nearly take it down with me.
Nope. I'm not embarrassed. Not at all.
My hands smooth the beautiful fabric of my dress as I struggle to find dignity. With my head held high, I stroll past the hot man and head for the door. His mouth is slightly agape, his friend is snickering, and my pride is outwardly swelling while inwardly crumbling. I wish I could bring myself to stop trying so hard, but I can't stop striving for happier days.
I'm Not Like Everybody Else
Insomnia sucks. Our family room is a disaster from my last bout of 3 A.M. boredom that I fought by starting to clean the closet. The coffee table is covered in vinyl, and I can barely make it to the stone mantle across the room to set down my glass of water. While the section of the floor between the sofa and the entertainment center is scarcely visible, I know that buried in the stacks of records is my renewed spirit that will soon spring forth. Bar Guy's shine off was a little much.
The Chocolate Watchband's cover of "I'm Not Like Everybody Else" blasts through the room, and its essence renews my spirit. Ray Davies may have written it, but David Aguilar's plea for acceptance cloaked in impassioned defiance sells me on the credo. Yeah, with the right surroundings I knew it wouldn't take long to bounce back from tonight's earlier embarrassment. Who I am is just dandy, even if my resolve does get wobbly at times.
Needing to rectify the haphazard state of the closet I pull out a huge stack of board games that nearly knocks me over. It gets plopped on the floor next to some homeless albums of which Deep Trance sits on top. A monopoly game that crowns the stack tips into Peter's image. Crap! I can't let that treasure get ruined!
I move the pile to the safety of the coffee table before heading back to the closet. Tomorrow that album gets framed and displayed near the other stuff I would be quick to save in a fire; family photos, my Dad's favorite guitar, and a signed copy of David Cassidy's autobiography. That book may be easily replaceable via eBay, but I ran through four blocks of L.A. traffic, chasing his limo from stoplight to stoplight to get that thing signed, and damn it, I'm going to be buried with it!
The song selection switches to The Fat Man singing, "Ain't That a Shame," and another stack of games gets pulled into my arms and then placed on the floor. It's back to the closet then—
Wait…
Abruptly I spin back. A Ouija board, which I haven't used since my last childhood slumber party, crowns the first stack of games with Monopoly now sitting next to it. "What the? Didn't I just put …?"
I really thought I left Monopoly on top. Weird …
I shrug off a case of the creeps and go for another stack of games. While setting them down my eyes catch sight of the album and I gasp. Slowly I stand with my eyes locked on the cover as if it's a spider I fear will flee before getting stomped. The album has rotated so that Peter Lane now faces the Ouija board. I scan the room for the non-existent eyes I feel are beckoning me to take action. Was there an intoxicant other than vodka in that Blueberry Lemon Drop?
The touch of my fingers to the planchette proves that my mind has been fried. Why did this album seem to hunt me down? Why do I have an overwhelming urge to contact a shattered soul who died young, broken, and unappreciated while I'm just braving to peek out from under shelter after barely surviving my own storm?
The memories of my past bring a clench to my stomach. I'm not ready to relive them. My eyes close in an attempt to shut them out while forcing in thoughts of the curious man who signed this album. It's better this way.
Minutes pass with my calling into silence without even a vibration in return. Refusing to give up, I again reach out. "Peter, are you there? Is anyone there?"
Silence.
Nope, no one is here but me—the sorry sack who needs a life.
Is it the crazy romantic inside me who whispers that the album holds mysteries? Am I just a nutty fangirl? Or is my desire to escape reality greater than I realize?
The part of me who longs for romance digs deep down inside, and instead of sending my energy into the universe I try pulling its energy in.
Heavy sadness creeps forth and shrouds the entire room, yet a part of me that has been long disturbed seems to find peace.
"Peter? Peter, if you're there, please say something, even if it's to tell me to get lost."
Abruptly the music stops, and the planchette moves without my touch. It zips through letters to tell me, trapped - no see - yes hear - help.
With a gasp I jump up and away from the board. A flick of the light switch shows I'm still alone and that everything in the room is exactly as remembered. While that's a relief, the whole incident is still freaky as hell! I'd actually feel saner if something around here were different. Did I imagine all of that?
Quickly the board is stashed away. I've really got to get some sleep.
"Goodnight, Peter, wherever you are."
Marc Bolan's head rest on my cotton-covered chest while I'm deep under the cover of a pink, satin comforter. Colors glow from my dad's old TV that sits upon a nineteen forties, oak and walnut dresser. This is at least the tenth time I've watched Beyond The Valley of the Dolls. Somehow the zaniness of the cult classic is always the perfect accompaniment to the madness of my world.
My cell phone chimes in receipt of a text that is probably from Jacqueline and The Peacock. The cozy bed gets abandoned so I can grab the phone from my vanity and respond promptly, else my drunken friends may call the police in fear that I've been kidnapped.
Not that they would actually do that. They seemed to have learned their lesson last time.
From an unknown number a text reads, I'm sorry about how I acted.
Wait. What?
No way.
Seriously? Bar Guy?
My breath hitches with a shock of excitement before I remember what a prick he had been. Then again, I had interrupted his work … and he did send over drinks. At least we all hoped it was him.
Who is this? I send in an attempt to play it cool.
The phone chimes. Niles. You borrowed my phone tonight at Mulligan's. I'm the one in the suit.
Rox, sometimes you really step into it.
He probably assumes that little stunt was an everyday occurrence, and that I'm a whore who parades my number around town.
The phone chimes again. Never mind. I'm sure you're busy. Sorry to have bothered you.
Great. He really does think I give my number to anything with legs and a schlong. Sorry, I type with my fingers racing. The guy is giving me stomach butterflies. I rarely give out my number. I'm just a little sensitive and a whole lot embarrassed. I hit send then bite my nail.
Why am I biting my nail? Because I fear some guy who brushed me off sees me as a slut?
Yeah, that's exactly why.
Why are you embarrassed?
I think I gave you the wrong impression. The second I hit send, my eyes squint as if shutting out my stupidity. I was supposed to be in the game, not confessing. Truthfully, I suck at dating games and would rather go for honesty. No wonder why I am single.
My bad. I thought you were inviting me to call you. Sorry if I misunderstood.
Now I've come off as a whore and a tease, not to mention he probably thinks I'm totally freaking insane. Sorry. That's not what I meant. I'm not used to giving out my number. The whole dating thing is overrated. I wish there were a better way to meet people. With a sigh I sit on the bed. Honesty is one thing, but I'm surprised by my display of v
ulnerability. It's been a while for so many things for me.
Me too. I have incredibly bad luck when it comes to meeting people. How is it people get to have friends at all?
I totally understand and am grateful for what seems to be a heart-felt reply, so I do the same. Meeting people seems impossible, especially someone I could have anything in common with at all. More vulnerability? Rox, what are you doing?
Sounds like you and I have something in common. That and we both text in complete sentences. :) Would you join me for brunch tomorrow?
My eyes bug out a bit, and I reread the text, twice. My fingers start jittering like I've suddenly forgotten how to type. I should slow down, but I fear if I do, I will take too long and the forces of evil will come and yank my phone away. Yes. Brunch sounds great. Where should I meet you?
How about I play the gentleman and pick you up? Is that too weird? Does 11 AM work?
Sounds great. No, actually it sounds wildly perfect! I can't freaking wait to tell the girls. They are never going to believe this!
Biff Bang Pow!
September 1966
The four of us cackled like fools while walking into the office of our manager. Our first two singles had shot up the charts with a bang, and our newly released album was doing exceedingly well. We were on the covers of magazines on every news rack from Manchester to South London, and were unable to walk down the street without being noticed. Part of that had to do with our music; part of it had to do with our clothes.
Practically every day I wore a new shirt, trousers, jacket, and accessories. Apparently it was bad for our image to be seen wearing the same thing twice. My friends were some of the best dressed as well. After all, my closet only held so much, and the clothes had to go somewhere. I'd an entourage catering to my every whim so they could get a piece of the discarded fortune.
Being at the peak of fashion was a surrealistic dream come true for this lad who grew up in war-torn East London. My father worked in a steel mill, and I was expected to follow suit and scrape for pennies like he always had. Happening upon a discarded guitar with a big crack in the wood and no strings had been a stroke of luck. After that my life propelled forward, bringing me from tattered old jeans with barely an arse left on them, to pressed stovepipe trousers.
White shoes were all the rage. Their high price and ability to easily scuff made them an unthinkable luxury a few months before. If they were the least bit dirty, it was an unforgivable strike against you. The soles barely got scraped before the white was scuffed, and I was told to purchase a new pair.
The four of us took seats across from Mr. B.S.'s enormous desk and were excited as hell for payday. We were also about to discuss what we had been told were "tactics" for the new record. When Mr. B.S. finally bothered to show, he and his swanky suit plopped across from us while looking like he was the cat that just had quadruple helpings of Canaries. "Well, lads. How are we doing today?"
We were all smiles—on top of the ever-loving world; however, our grins quickly faded when Mr. B.S. started doling out the cash. We were anticipating big, fat checks, but our hopes were misguided. Instead, we were handed about half of what was expected. "Where is the rest?" I asked, rather put off.
Stoddard looked taken aback by my question, like I was utterly ridiculous and had insulted his integrity. I explained that New Musical Express reported we had sold nearly nine hundred thousand singles at three for a quid. It was only logical we should expect more than the little under a thousand pounds each we were just handed. Mr. B.S. seemed surprised that this underprivileged, snot-nosed boy could do basic math. He went into a lecture on how finances work. "After all lads, you know what those Beatles say about the taxman."
I didn't buy it and pressed on.
"You're all wearing it," Stoddard said. He seemed unaffected by the silliness of his statement. "The charge accounts on Carnaby are running up the bills. Even though you're getting those clothes at a steep discount they still cost an absolute fortune."
It seemed hard to believe that we were wearing over one hundred thousand quid worth of clothing, and I wondered if the name Stoddard meant liar in another language. All I knew was I was going to be a lot more careful with my white shoes.
Mr. B.S. was ecstatic at the success of our last album but was also somewhat concerned about our present efforts. Our peers were allowed to experiment in the studio and find unique sounds. However, we weren't to have that privilege.
"Lads, what you're doing sounds great. I think we have several more hits on our hands. However, boys, you might want to step back from the booth a bit. In fact, we insist on it. Also, I know Abbey Road is loaded with an instrument closet to drive talented young men such as yourselves wild, and those Beatles have been goofing around, but we don't have their budget, so don't get any crazy ideas."
"Wait a minute," Johnny, our drummer, said, but B.S. cut him off.
"Well, it's not my fault. It's the engineer's. He thinks you'll be a bigger success if he's able to put his magic touch on everything. You're all aware of what Phil Spector's done in America. What George Martin's done for The Beatles. We're working on doing that for you."
That was bollocks and he knew it. Martin's success with The Beatles came from helping with the orchestral arrangements, not running the show to the minute detail. He never would have slapped McCartney's hand. They were the ones dominating studio two for months on end, recording and rerecording, dubbing and overdubbing, yet this yob wanted us to pull our music out of the vending machine and make it sound like all the other mindless pop dribble.
"What it comes down to, boys, is I want you to keep doing what you're doing but relax a bit. Enjoy yourselves in the studio more—just don't do it in the booth, and don't go raiding the equipment."
The four of us left the office feeling like we'd been run over with a lorry. How was it we were so good yet also so bad? Something told me we were about to find out. Frankly, it gave me the willies.
While driving down the road, the disc jockey announced the release of our latest hit. I turned up the volume and the shock of my life infiltrated my ears in the form of a song I barely recognized. I was pretty sure it was us playing and my voice singing, but it didn't sound like anything we'd ever done.
So that was what it was all coming down to. They wanted to manipulate our songs—our fantastic, well-written songs with a soulful drive—beautiful English R&B—and turn them into pop rubbish. We might as well have been writing children's lullabies for all that did for me. We had to get away from that asshole.
I'm Into Something Good
Stepping out of Jacqueline's walk-in closet, I enter her room and twirl as if I'm a princess on her way to the ball. Her simple, blue, A-line dress that is still a tad big when she is bloated fits me perfectly.
It also makes me feel completely ridiculous.
"How do I look?"
"Freakishly normal. Are you okay?"
"No." I sigh at my image in her mirror. "I'm tired of walking out of here knowing I look great and then coming home feeling like a great looking schmuck. I'm trying reverse psychology. If I leave feeling I look like an idiot, maybe—"
Jacqueline's eyes flutter, and her face contorts as she gags. "Rosalyn, that is absolutely ridiculous. Do you have any idea how jealous I am you can do the vintage clothing and makeup thing? Anything vintage looks like a Halloween costume on me. With you it's stylish, albeit accented with a smidgen of quirky."
"Okay, truthfully, I just don't want my wardrobe to be the focus. I thought I'd try something different. You know I do that once in a while."
Jacqueline cocks an eyebrow and scrutinizes me. "Yes, but your timing is suspicious. If those guys got to you so much, why are you going out with one of them?"
"Come on, Jacqueline, we both know I try not to let my insecurities get in the way. Besides, I may have misjudged Niles, and I've nothing better to do today than give him the benefit of the doubt. Sure I could lounge around, read old issues of 16 Magazine that have pictures of y
our grandfather, or I could pull out one of the counter culture movies that I'm always watching. Oh! How about I plop in front of the TV for a Here Come The Brides marathon? Yeah, that's totally new. Wait, I need to think bigger. I'll go for something more modern, like from the eighties. Sanchez of Bel Air! I mean, just because it sucked so hard it failed before the first episode finished airing doesn't mean it's not worth wasting time on."
Jacqueline cringes so deeply on the inside her disgust seeps out of her pores and into the room, yet her outward drive is steady and determined. She's my rock. I can always count on her when I flail. "What would you be most comfortable in today?"
"A satin lined casket."
"That's it! When you start reminding me of my mom, I tune you out. Come on." Jacqueline pushes me down the hall and into my room. There is something in seeing my prized Standells poster with them in their hip, garage rock glory that instantly puts me mentally and physically in a better space. Sometimes the littlest things ground me.
Jacqueline flings open my closet and rummages through my clothes. "The only choice you get is jeans or a dress. Pick one. Hey, do you own any jeans that aren't black?"
"I have a pair of pink, leopard skin pants from the eighties in the bottom of that drawer over there. You know I can't coordinate anything. So either everything is black or if there's any color it has to be a dress. If it's a dress, I wear either black stilettos or white boots." Jacqueline drops her arms, shooting me a "you've got to be kidding" look, and I defend myself. "Hey, it makes life easy. I actually have a pair of hot pink boots, but I never know what to wear with them. Too bad, they're totally cool."
"Okay, we both know that you are majorly exaggerating." A new pair of black jeans and a long-sleeved black blouse with a corset-style midsection are tossed at me. "Here. Wear this. It hugs your curves perfectly and doesn't make you look like a tramp. And it's in your favorite color—deceased." Her steps ring with determination as she invades my jewelry box and hands me a black choker.
Scary Modsters... and Creepy Freaks: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection) Page 3