“Oh, me too, please,” I say.
My mother clears her throat loudly.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“We had a wonderful time at the spa last weekend,” Barbie says, slowly.
“Yes, we did,” Andrew says.
“That’s your news?” my father says. “Mazel tov.”
“Marty!” my mother says, throwing a dirty look his way.
“Nooooo,” Barbie says, smiling. She looks at Andrew and he looks back at her. They continue looking at each other and then start whispering. “You tell them,” “No, you tell them!” to each other. They do this a couple of times until Barbie finally turns back to face my parents and me.
“We’re getting married!” she squeals, throwing her left hand on the table to show us her engagement ring.
We all jump up and start hugging Barbie and Andrew. Andrew is surprisingly calm in the wake of this announcement, sort of like Johnny Cash before he walked into Folsom Prison to perform.
“I’m so happy for you, Andrew,” I say on autopilot, before I can even decide if it’s true.
“Thanks, Jo-Jo,” he says. And I actually am very happy for my brother, despite the fact that my heart was recently crushed into a million pieces. But what’s really fueling my cry of “mazel tov” is the fact that my mother will now have this wedding to plan, and she won’t be bothering me any more about my birthday. After all, wedding trumps a non-milestone birthday any day.
“When we got to the spa, we just knew,” Barbie gushes. “We just knew that we wanted to spend our whole lives together! We came home, looked for rings on Monday and Tuesday, and then he popped the question last night!”
“How romantic,” my father says. I shake my head, too, and say, “So romantic.”
“This calls for a toast,” my mother says, and calls over a waiter to order a bottle of champagne.
“Wanna try it on?” Barbie asks me.
I do not want to try her ring on.
But she’s so excited about the prospect of my wanting to try her ring on that I don’t have the heart to say no. I put it on, and my mother compliments Andrew on picking out such a beautiful ring. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her wink at him as she says this and I immediately know that my mother was the one who actually picked it out.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, half to my mother, half to Barbie. I give it back to Barbie and she instructs me to put it on the table first and not hand it to her directly—apparently, superstition states that if I hand it immediately back to her without setting it down on the table first, I will be an old maid. Barbie is the sort of girl who worries about such things.
“Jo,” Barbie says, suddenly very serious, as she puts her ring back on her ring finger, “will you do me the honor of being one of my bridesmaids?”
A bridesmaid? Haven’t I been punished enough lately? First, I lose my job. No, first, my father fires me. And then he takes my car away. Which is really worse than losing the job, if you think about it. Then the love of my life leaves me. In cold blood, no less. And now this. I will have to be a Barbie bridesmaid. No doubt the dresses will be bubble-gum pink and will fit all of her Barbie doll friends and family perfectly. I, with my crazy black hair and most un-Barbie-doll-like figure, will look more like one of those troll dolls than an actual bridesmaid.
And I can’t even complain to my mother about all of this. I look up at her and can see in her face she’s infuriated that Barbie has asked me to be a bridesmaid and not the maid of honor. Even though Barbie has two Barbie doll sisters of her own.
“I would love to,” I say, and Barbie squeals and begins hugging the life force right out of me. She then starts bouncing as she’s hugging me and saying, “I’m so happy! This is perfect!”
I immediately feel another pimple coming on.
10 - How Soon Is Now?
Bad things happen in threes, so that’s how I know my gig will go well tonight. I’ve already used up my set of three—getting fired by my dad, getting dumped by my boyfriend, and then getting enlisted in a Barbie wedding party—so nothing bad can happen to me now. I did also get my car taken away, but that should be collapsed into the getting fired thing, right? So I’m technically still at three. But if the car counts separately, then being put in the Barbie bridal party starts my next suite of three.
This show is doomed.
“You’re on in five,” the manager says to me as he rushes by to get up to the sound booth.
I’m backstage at The Bitter End, New York City’s self-proclaimed oldest rock club, for a gig featuring three other singer-songwriters. It’s my favorite venue to play—small and intimate, it has the feeling of being in your living room playing for some friends. The manager here loves me, so tonight, as usual, I’m closing out the show.
I shake off the feeling that something bad is about to happen (two more bad things, to be specific) and listen to the singer-songwriter on stage. He’s a guy I’ve seen perform before who does his whole set behind the piano, à la Billy Joel. He’s singing a song about America and pounding away on his piano like he’s Liberace.
“I hate this guy,” Chloe says, walking over to me backstage and pointing at America guy. Backstage at The Bitter End is actually just the back of the club off the stage, so anyone can come back there.
“He’s not bad,” I say, putting down my guitar and really listening to America guy for a second. “He’s very patriotic.”
“He sucks,” she says as he starts wrapping up his set.
“Thanks for coming out, guys,” he says, getting up from his piano.
The stage is set up with the huge baby grand toward the back of the stage and a single stool at the front. The manager comes down from the sound booth and asks me if I want the stage changed at all, but I tell him no. It’s just me and my guitar tonight, no accompaniment, so I don’t need much. He goes out the back door to light a cigarette and the crisp winter air floats into the club.
I walk out on stage and sit down on the stool.
“Hi, I’m Jo Waldman,” I say. “Thanks for coming out on such a cold night. The first song in my set tonight is a song I wrote recently. I hope that you like it.”
My mother and father cheer from the front table, just underneath my feet, even though I’ve told them countless times that it distracts me when people I know are in the front row. (“We’re not people you know,” my mother says. “We are your parents.”) I can hear Chloe screaming my name from backstage as I start to play.
Night in, night out, I sit and wait for you
I’m here alone, it’s all that I can I do
You’ve got my mind, my heart and my soul
All this time, I still can’t let you go
When will tomorrow be?
I do the only thing that I know how
I pray for you to come back to me somehow
Day turns to night
And winter comes
Without your love
I’m all alone
When will tomorrow be?
Another day, another thought of you
It’s been a year since I’ve seen your eyes of blue
You’ve done something that can’t be undone
Now I can only ask, when will tomorrow come?
I do the only thing that I know how
I pray for you to come back to me somehow
When will tomorrow be?
“Thank you,” I say as the crowd begins to applaud. Since I still use the mailing list from my Lonely Hearts Club Band Web site, I recognize a few of the faces out in the crowd. I look offstage to see why Chloe isn’t cheering for me, and I see that she has, rather quickly, changed her opinion of America guy. Not only does she no longer hate America guy, but she’s now making out with him against the wall.
With a laugh, I start in on the next song in my set. Looking out into the crowd at the faces of people who support me and my music—people who consider themselves my fans—I can’t help but think that my run of bad luck is over. Nothing else is goi
ng to happen to me; I’m not starting in on a new suite of three. I may have been having a rough time of it lately, but my luck is still better than most people’s, and it’s time that I stop feeling sorry for myself. As I see a girl in the back of the room mouthing the words to a song that I wrote, even though I’m singing a sad song, I can’t help but smile.
“Great job,” my mother says, hugging me before I’m even fully off the stage. “You were the best out of everyone.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say.
“You were great, Pumpkin,” my dad says. “Do you need a ride back to the loft?”
I take a look backstage, and through the darkness, see that Chloe is still entangled with America guy. “I think I’ll stay and have a drink,” I say. “Get home safe.”
I walk my parents to the front door of the club and then make a beeline straight to the bar.
“Nice set,” a guy who’d been sitting in the back of the club says to me as I walk toward the bar. I don’t recognize him from any of my old gigs. He’s wearing a baseball cap slung so low on his head that I can barely see his eyes.
“Thanks,” I say, slinging my guitar over my shoulder.
“You’re very welcome,” he says, following me to the bar as I order myself a vodka tonic, my post-show drink of choice.
“Anything for your friend, Jo?” the bartender asks me.
“He’s not my friend.”
“I’d like to be your friend,” he says. “Alan Golden.” As he sticks out his hand for me to shake, I recognize his name from somewhere, but can’t place him. “And this drink’s on me.” Drinks on him? I like Alan Golden already.
“Thank you, Alan Golden,” I say and shake his hand.
“I’m a music manager,” he explains, and I take a seat at the bar to listen. “I love your song lyrics. They’re amazing.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking a sip of my drink. The first sip right after I come off stage is always the best one. I savor it as I wait for Alan’s big pitch.
“I represent a wide range of clients,” he says. “We should be in business together.” Music to my ears. It’s just like my grandmother always says—when you least expect it, your life can change in an instant.
“I’m listening,” I say, stirring my drink slowly.
“I have a proposition for you,” Alan says. “That song of yours—the tomorrow one—it’s absolutely incredible, and I want to buy it.”
“Buy it?” I say.
“For one of my clients,” he says. “Can we talk about it?”
“You don’t want me to perform it?” I say. “You want to buy it from me so that someone else can perform it?” I feel my face begin to burn.
“I want to introduce you to someone,” he says as I get up from my bar stool.
“No, thank you,” I say. “I’ve actually got somewhere to be.”
I get a head rush as I walk to the back of the bar and process what Alan Golden has just said to me. He sat through my entire set, watched me perform, and he doesn’t want to sign me. What he does want is to buy my lyrics for some no-talent artist who can’t write so that she can become famous and get a record deal. My record deal. Maybe the A&R rep from Pinnacle was right two years ago—I’m nothing without my band. They wouldn’t take our band without Billy, and now no manager is going to take me on my own.
When I get backstage, Chloe is still there, making out with America guy against a wall.
“Come on, we’re leaving,” I say to Chloe, prying her away from her prey.
“What happened?” she says, her eyes only half open, giving her guy the “one-minute” finger as she lets me pull her away.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, and look over my shoulder. Alan is making his way backstage and has a tall blonde following in his wake, who is also wearing a baseball cap low on her head so that I can’t see her eyes. I’m sure that this is the no-talent artist who can’t write her own songs who he wanted me to meet, but I’m not interested.
“That’s Alan Golden,” Mr. America says. “He’s a music manager.”
“Jo, let’s try to meet him!” Chloe says, grabbing my arm.
“I already did,” I say, and America guy takes this as his cue to rush over to Alan to introduce himself. “Can we go?”
Alan hands America guy a business card and walks over to Chloe and me.
“Jo,” he says, “this is the client of mine who I wanted you to meet. Well, she’s my wife, too. She’s my client and my wife. May I introduce you to the lovely Miss Amber Fairchild.”
Yes, that Amber Fairchild.
She takes her baseball cap off and a cascade of huge blonde curls fall onto her shoulders. I want to tell her that the pageantry is not necessary, that I’m not a fan, but she is already grabbing for my hand before I get a chance.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” she says in her thick Midwestern farmer’s daughter accent as she takes my hand and shakes it vigorously. She obviously doesn’t remember me from American Star. But I remember her. Whenever I see her on MTV, her accent always seems thicker than I remember it being, and I’m sure that it’s entirely put on for the cameras. But, here, now, meeting her in person, I see that it’s not. This is honestly how she speaks.
“We’ve met before,” I say. “American Star?”
“Good to see you again,” Amber says, not skipping a beat. I can’t tell whether or not she actually remembers me.
“Do you remember who I am?” I try to ask, but she’s already on to the next thing.
“I love your shirt!” she says at practically the same time. I’m wearing a vintage Ramones T-shirt, one that my father bought my mother when they first began dating. That she notices it makes me start to warm to her.
“It was my mother’s from the eighties,” I say.
“Oh my God, no way!” she says. “I totally got the same one at Urban Outfitters today!”
“I’m out of here,” I say, grabbing Chloe’s arm and turning around.
“Don’t you even want to discuss this?” Alan says. “We’re talking about a lot of money here.”
“No, Alan, I think we’re done here,” I say, still headed for the door.
“What is he talking about, Jo?” Chloe asks.
“Nothing,” I say as I grab my guitar case. I don’t even bother to put my guitar into it as I continue walking toward the door.
“A licensing deal, Jo. Royalties,” he says, my back facing him.
“Don’t you even want to know how much?” Chloe whispers to me, stopping in her tracks, and in so doing, stopping me in my tracks, too.
“My songs are not for sale,” I say as I spin around. “I’m not a sellout.”
“Getting your music out there,” Alan says, “is selling out?”
“You’re just going to turn it into some bland, lame, overproduced pop thing,” I blurt out. “Something disposable, like the rest of your music.”
Chloe gasps. Even I’m surprised at my audacity. Amber looks down to the ground and crosses one leg in front of the other.
But I’m not going to apologize for how I feel. What I’m saying is the truth about her music. And anyway, now that I have the gig at supergood, I don’t have to sell out my music for money. I can wait it out until my next big break comes along, just like I know it will.
“Chloe, let’s go,” I say, hoping that she already exchanged numbers with America guy so that we don’t have to stop again before leaving.
“One more thing,” Chloe says, releasing herself from my grip and turning back to Amber before we leave. “Could I get your autograph for my Little Sister?”
The next morning, Chloe and I drag ourselves into the supergood offices for our final Healthy Foods meeting. I try not to hate her too much for asking Amber for her autograph as we walk into the conference room for the big day.
“Are you still mad at me?” Chloe asks as she sets up her easel and her storyboards.
“Why on earth would I be mad at you?” I ask as I put my guitar down on its stand
.
“What?” she says. “It’s not my fault that Tiffany likes her!”
“You asked for two signatures,” I say as I walk toward the credenza and pour myself a cup of coffee. There is a wide assortment of things to put in your coffee in the supergood conference room—you can have three different types of artificial sweetener, two different types of sugar, agave nectar, and your choice of whole milk, skim milk, soy milk, two percent, or cream. But I take my coffee black.
“Well, she is Amber Fairchild,” Chloe says, sitting down at the conference room table and arranging her notes. “Why do you hate her so much? She’s not singing about killing kittens, for God’s sake. Don’t be so hard on her.”
“I hate her because she creates conformist overproduced crap. She is everything that is wrong with the music industry today,” I say, sipping my coffee and taking a seat next to Chloe. “She is the reason why I can’t get a record deal.”
“Is she really the reason why?” Chloe says, just as the account executive in charge of Healthy Foods walks into the conference room.
“Okay, ladies. Big day today,” he says, flipping through Chloe’s storyboards. “The Healthy Foods wrap-up.”
Within minutes, the client has arrived and everyone takes their places at the conference room table. The account executive in charge begins the pitch meeting and Chloe passes me a note on her yellow legal pad.
Sorry, it says.
I write back: Me too.
Are you just saying that because I said that?
Yes, I write back.
You conformist overproduced kitten killer, she writes, you’re everything that’s wrong with the music industry today.
The rest of the meeting flies by—the client’s happy, supergood’s happy, everyone’s happy.
I’m happy. As we wrap the meeting, it dawns on me that I actually like working on the Healthy Foods matter. I really enjoy working at supergood. It turns out that working for The Man really isn’t that bad. I don’t really want to stick it to him anymore. In fact, I kind of like The Man.
“Jo,” the executive in charge of the Healthy Foods account says to me after the meeting, “we will definitely contact you again when the next freelance gig comes up.”
The Lonely Hearts Club Page 6