The Lonely Hearts Club

by Brenda Janowitz

  I’m all smiles as I pack up my guitar and its stand. Music to my ears—getting a paycheck for doing what I love best.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I really enjoyed working on this with you.”

  “So did we. These things don’t come up that often,” he says, “but when they do, you’ll be the first person we call.”

  “When will that be,” I say as we walk down the hallway toward the elevator, “do you think?”

  “We’ll call when the next freelance gig comes up,” he says as he presses the button for the elevator. I wonder if he knows that he hasn’t answered my question.

  “When will that be?” I say, trying to sound confident and professional.

  “First person we call,” he says with a smile as the elevator doors open.

  “Great!” I say.

  “Great,” he says. I stand there, waiting for him to say more, but he doesn’t.

  “So, we’ll call you,” he says with a smile as the elevator door closes.

  When will that be?

  11 – Birthday

  “Surprise!” the crowd screams as I climb up to the rooftop of the Delancey with Chloe. Even though it’s the dead of winter, Chloe told me that the band we were here to see was set to perform on the roof, so I let her lure me upstairs. The retractable roof has been drawn and the heat lamps are on.

  We immediately freeze in our tracks. Cameras are flashing like crazy, and somehow I know that it’s not the paparazzi here to greet us. Through the flickering lights, I can barely see the crowd of people circling us.

  I thought that we were coming to the Delancey, one of our favorite Lower East Side rock clubs, to see Cakewalk perform, but I now see that instead, I have been tricked into doing the one thing I do not want to do tonight—celebrate my twenty-second birthday.

  “You are dead to me,” I mutter to Chloe under my breath.

  “I had no idea,” she says without letting her lips move as my mother comes in to embrace us both.

  “Surprise, honey!” my mother says, emerging from the crowd of lights like Diana Ross returning to the stage for an encore, as she pulls me to her bosom for a hug. “Are you surprised?”

  “Sure am,” I say.

  “How about you, Chlo?” she says, hugging Chloe. “Bet you didn’t think I could pull something like this off?”

  “I can honestly say that I did not,” she says.

  “I didn’t even know you wanted a party, Pumpkin,” my father says as he walks over to us and hugs and kisses me. He is wearing a pair of jeans and a black leather blazer with a white button-down shirt underneath. As usual, he’s got on his gold Tiffany belt buckle, but since it’s the weekend, he’s forgone the usual shellac in his jet-black hair, and I notice for the first time that he bears a striking resemblance to Gene Simmons.

  “Me neither,” I say.

  “Ha!” he says back. “Your mother is something, isn’t she? How are things going with the freelance job?”

  “I could really use a drink,” I say.

  “I made sure they stocked the bar with 1990 Lafite.” He produces a wineglass from out of nowhere and I take a swig, surveying the crowd. I wonder whether my parents shelled out the cash for an open bar, too. I could really use some hard alcohol right now.

  A waitress walks by with a tray of mini hot dogs. Chloe, although immersed in conversation with my mom, manages to grab one and dip it into the mustard. My dad and I reach over and grab some, too.

  As I look around, I see that my mother has completely redesigned the Delancey’s roof deck—Chinese paper lanterns hang delicately from the ceiling, the way they used to do on the terrace of Tavern on the Green, and there are two overlapping Oriental rugs laid down on the stage, à la U2’s video for “Elevation.” Right above the stage, there is a massive hot-pink neon sign announcing HAPPY 22ND BIRTHDAY, JO!

  And if that wasn’t enough, my mother’s also had the entire thing catered. In the far left corner, where Chloe once made out with a crazy Brazilian guy, only to have his girlfriend appear and try to take a swing at her, there are mini crab cakes and chicken satay being passed around. Right in the middle of the room, where Jesse once got so drunk he threw up right on the floor, there is a caviar bar and vodka slide. People are already lined up to drink the vodka directly as it comes down the slide (which was not my mother’s intention, I assure you, what with the little bamboo shot glasses she’s lined up next to the slide). On the wall across from where the bands usually set up, where Chloe and I scratched our initials into the wood, there is a carving station with prime rib and roast turkey. At the prime rib station, I see Andrew loading up a plate with tons of food while Barbie stands by his side, nibbling on some celery and drinking a Diet Coke. I can tell by the look on Andrew’s face that they have just been bickering. They are always quarreling with each other—I once told Andrew that they have a very Sid and Nancy-esque relationship. If only he would just get on with killing Barbie already, it might save me the misery of being a bridesmaid (she’s already hinted that for the bridesmaid dresses she’s leaning toward peach).

  A waiter breezes by me with a tray of tuna tartare and my father and I both grab one, my father noting that for “all this money we’re paying them,” the least they can do is provide cocktail napkins for the hors d’oeuvres. All I can think is, How much money did my mother pay the Delancey for this space? I will be forever known as the wannabe rocker whose mommy paid tons of cash to throw her a birthday party at the Delancey. I can never show my face on the Lower East Side again.

  Frankie, my old lead guitarist from the Lonely Hearts Club Band, approaches us. He shakes my father’s hand and gives me a hug and a kiss. We haven’t even spoken since Billy died and our band broke up. He graduated right after Billy died, so I haven’t even seen him in those two years.

  “I’m so happy to be here, Jo,” he says. “It’s good to see you. Happy birthday.”

  “It’s great to see you, Frankie,” I say, and I am surprised to realize that I mean it. “How are you doing?”

  “Great,” he says. “Really great. I married Stacey, and we’re living out in Jersey now.”

  “I always knew you two would get married,” I say. It’s kind of crazy to think that they’re only two years older than me, but they seem to have everything together. “You were a great couple. Is she here tonight?”

  “Right over there,” he says. “She’s the one accosting the waiter with the potato pancakes.”

  I spot Stacey across the dance floor. As she turns around and begins walking toward us, I see that she is pregnant. Very pregnant. Stacey has a massive tattoo across her stomach, which was, two years ago, incredibly sexy because she was a yoga instructor and had amazing abs. I can only imagine what that tattoo looks like now.

  “Here’s my baby,” Frankie says, pulling her to him for a kiss.

  “Here’s your baby,” Stacey says, stroking her tummy and laughing as she reaches over to me for a hug. “Happy birthday, Jo.”

  The baby talk is freaking me out a bit—this is a couple who hated last call at 4 A.M. more than any of us. It’s strange to see them settled down, especially so young. As we talk, Frankie tells me that he’s teaching music at a community college out in Jersey (who would have guessed that a guy with seven piercings would get a respectable teaching gig?) and Stacey’s running a yoga studio in a strip mall.

  “What are you up to these days?” Frankie asks.

  “Still working on my music,” I say. “Fighting the good fight.”

  “Keep on rocking in the free world,” Frankie says. “Wasn’t that our motto?”

  “It was,” I say. “So, do you ever hear from Kane?”

  “Naw,” Frankie says. “I haven’t. Have you?”

  “No,” I say. “Sorry I brought it up. Have you checked out the caviar bar yet?”

  “Not yet,” Stacey says, rubbing her belly, “but there’s sushi over there by the carving station, and it’s killing me!”

  “I could use a drink,” Frankie says,
and we part ways.

  Frankie heads over to get a drink and I make my way to the caviar bar. As embarrassed as I am about the sheer spectacle of the evening, it would be a huge waste to not try the imported caviar. Walking through the crowd, I wonder how my mother even got the contact information for all of my friends if Chloe didn’t help her. I survey the crowd and see several other people who I haven’t spoken to in ages—even a few that I wouldn’t have invited if I’d had my choice. In an instant, it hits me—she got it from the address book on my iPhone. It was synched with the computer at work, so I now blame Barbie for this whole debacle.

  “The Lower East Side sure cleans up nice,” Andrew says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. I wonder if that’s my present from him.

  “Hey, girlie!” Barbie says, hugging me as if I were her long lost sister. “Happy Birthday! I got you something!”

  “That was so unnecessary,” I say, scooping a massive spoonful of caviar onto a blini and eating it quickly. I put down my plate, take a swig of vodka (from the bamboo shot glass, just in case my mother is watching me), and open Barbie’s gift.

  It’s really not a gift at all. It’s more like an envelope. Assuming it’s a very heartfelt greeting card, I tear it open, oblivious to the red hearts adorning it. But what’s inside is not a greeting card at all. The lights are low at the Delancey, so I have to position myself just so under a paper lantern to see what Barbie has given to me.

  I feel my face getting shiny and red as I realize what the slip of paper actually is. I imagine steam coming out of my ears, like in a kid’s cartoon. Eyes bulging out of my head. Across the top, in swirly pretty letters, it says, “Love, Inc.” If I hadn’t thrown it out the second Barbie turned her back on me, I would have noticed that the card was pale pink with the faint outline of tiny hearts everywhere. What I was able to see in the thirty seconds before I crushed it into a ball with my fist was that Barbie was giving me a subscription to an online dating service. When I thank her (disingenuously), she informs me that she thought it was the perfect gift—I can use it and have a date for her wedding. Barbie then, as is her way, grabs hold of my body and hugs me and begins bouncing up and down. I hug her back, though “hugging” might be putting it too charitably. “Strangling” is more like it.

  “I’m so happy you like it, girlie!” Barbie says, just before she excuses herself to go to the “little girls’ room.”

  “I had no idea,” Andrew says under his breath. I’m not sure if he wanted me to hear him say that or not.

  “What?” I say, a little too aggressively, grabbing for another blini and covering it in sour cream and then caviar.

  “Nothing,” he says. “Actually, I got you something, too. I thought it would be from the two of us, but...”

  “You didn’t have to,” I say.

  “I’m your brother, Jo-Jo,” he says. “Of course I had to.”

  I freeze as I see that Andrew’s present is yet another envelope.

  “Trust me, you’ll like this one,” he says.

  This envelope I open slowly, gingerly, like I’ve got all the time in the world. When I take out the card, I know immediately what it is—it’s another gift certificate. But this one is a gift certificate for hours of studio time at my favorite recording studio. Without thinking, I jump on top of my brother and give him a huge hug.

  “Thank you so much,” I scream in his ear.

  “Told you you’d like it,” he says and lifts me a little bit in the air for effect.

  “I love it,” I say as he puts me back down on the ground. “Studio time is so expensive, and this is enough for me to make an entire demo.”

  “I know, and I know. I remember you told me that this was the place where you cut your first demo and that you loved it there, but it costs a fortune to make a demo there, so I figured that I’d help you out. Since you’re unemployed and everything.”

  “I love it. Thank you.”

  “Why are you thanking him?” Barbie says, back from the bathroom. “Love, Inc. was all my idea!”

  Andrew and I look at each other and laugh. Andrew apologizes to Barbie for trying to steal her glory as I quietly tuck Andrew’s gift certificate into my pocket.

  “When are they going to play some music that I’ve heard of?” a huge voice calls out from behind me. I turn around to see Lola and her mother.

  “They’re not,” I say, leaning down to kiss her.

  “Which is just fine,” her mother says, “because we’re only staying until ten.”

  “Mom!” Lola cries.

  “When I was your age, my mother didn’t ever take me to a downtown club or let me drink Shirley Temples. So you’d better be Mom-ing me to say, ‘I’m so lucky to have a cool mother like you.’”

  “If we’re leaving at ten, I’m going to request some Amber Fairchild right now,” Lola says, running off toward the DJ.

  I look at the stage and see Cakewalk setting up. They really are playing. Now I truly can never show my face at the Delancey again. Any downtown rock club, really. How is it going to look that my parents hired a hip, new indie rock band to play my twenty-second birthday party? It’s like an older, slightly more pathetic version of MTV’s My Sweet 16.

  “Cakewalk’s actually performing here?” Chloe says to me, handing me a mini crab cake. “Your mother has truly outdone herself.”

  “I’m so embarrassed,” I say.

  “You don’t get embarrassed,” Chloe reminds me, grabbing at a stuffed mushroom that a waiter brings by on a tray.

  “No, my mother’s just that good,” I say. “She can embarrass anyone. Even people who don’t get embarrassed.”

  “Let’s just dance,” Chloe says, and pulls me up to stand right in front of where the band is almost finished setting up. We put our drinks down and begin to dance to an old Killers song that the DJ is playing.

  “And now,” the DJ announces, “I’m going to do one more song by special request before Cakewalk hits the stage. Lola would like to dedicate this song to the birthday girl.” I smile and scan the crowd for Lola. She is jumping up and down, clapping her hands furiously, and dragging her mother out onto the dance floor. “So here’s Amber Fairchild singing ‘I Want You to Keep Me Up All Night (All Right).’”

  Chloe and I exchange looks, and over her shoulder, I can see Barbie jumping up and down, clapping her hands furiously and dragging my brother out onto the dance floor.

  “I really wish I knew that you didn’t want a party, Pumpkin,” my father tells me between Cakewalk’s sets, “because this party is your gift.”

  “How about we call it even and you just give me the loft?” I say.

  “The loft?” my dad says, running his fingers through his thick black hair. “That reminds me of an old joke. A husband asks his wife what she wants for her fiftieth birthday. He says, ‘You can have anything you want.’ She tells him, ‘I want a divorce.’ The man says, ‘I wasn’t really planning on spending that much.’”

  At around ten, the band takes a break, and we are introduced to my mother’s pièce de résistance. She jumps up on stage and announces that dessert is about to be served. With a tiny wave of her wrist, waiters and waitresses come out with dozens and dozens of miniature gourmet cupcakes. Some are adorned with little music notes, and others with teeny treble clefs.

  Lola and her mother come to say good-bye to me and I see that my mother has given them the party favors for the evening—the old Lonely Hearts Club Band demo CD in a red leather CD case, embossed, of course, with:

  Jo’s 22nd Birthday Party

  The Delancey

  New York City

  “I can’t wait to put this on my phone!” Lola calls out as she walks out with her mother. I make a mental inventory of just how many of those songs are inappropriate for children.

  Most of them.

  “Aren’t these fabulous?” my mother asks, handing me a vanilla cupcake with buttercream frosting. “I had them made specially for you from that French bakery on the Miracle Mile.”

/>   “Aren’t you planning Andrew’s wedding?” I ask. “Isn’t that keeping you busy enough?”

  “But you’re my daughter,” she says, dragging the word “daughter” out into two words so that it almost sounds as if she has an English accent. “It’s your birthday.”

  I know that what she is saying is true. I know that she loves me so much it hurts, and that she would do anything in the world for me. I also know that she fancies herself a real Martha Stewart, albeit more law-abiding, and would not miss an opportunity to plan an expensive, over-the-top wedding.

  “Barbie’s mom isn’t letting you have anything to do with the wedding plans?”

  “No,” my mom says. “She’s absolutely horrible.” She looks like she’s fighting back tears when she says this, and for a moment, I actually feel sorry for her.

  But that doesn’t last long. The next minute, I remember that I’m a loser—no job, no freelance gig, no boyfriend, no music career, and I’ve just turned twenty-two. I’ve graduated college, so there’s no more excuses. I’m a loser.

  “For the birthday girl,” the leader of the band says, “we’ve got a surprise.”

  A surprise? Hasn’t this whole night been surprise enough? I find Chloe across the room and our eyes lock.

  “Dr. Waldman,” he says. “Get your ass up here!” Why is the lead singer of Cakewalk directing my dad’s ass to be anywhere? The crowd goes crazy, and a few of my friends from high school even start chanting my father’s name. Chloe’s prom date in particular—formerly the quarterback of the football team, now a three-hundred-pound electronics salesman—seems to be going wild with anticipation.

  “Marty! Marty! Marty!”

  My father climbs up on stage and gets behind the electric keyboard.

  “I’m used to playing on a baby grand,” he quips, “but this will have to do.” The crowd explodes in laughter, with my mom leading the charge. She has climbed up onto one of the benches and is cheering like a groupie.

  “This is dedicated to Jo,” my father says. “Happy birthday, Pumpkin.”