The Lonely Hearts Club

by Brenda Janowitz

  “He’s not speaking to me, Dad.”

  “You’d be surprised what a little time can do,” he says.

  “Does that mean that time’s made you realize you should give me the loft as a gift after all?”

  He laughs. “No. But now that you and your brother are single, maybe you could spend some more time together. Maybe even rent an apartment together.”

  Exactly what I was looking for—more time with my brother, Andrew. Sure, I’m glad that Barbie’s out of our lives (and my dad’s office), but I’m not exactly looking to spend more time alone with Andrew. And anyway, what are we going to do? Paint each other’s nails? Go out on the town together? Double date? Though I would like to know why he and Barbie abruptly broke off the engagement without even the tiniest of explanations.

  “Can I at least come back to work for you?” I ask. “With Barbie gone, you must need a few extra hands. And I could use the cash.”

  “No, Pumpkin, I want you to break out on your own. Make your own success. You still think you can conquer the world, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Dad,” I dutifully reply. “I do.”

  “Atta’ girl.”

  Once my mother’s show is over and the champagne is all gone, I make my way back into the city. Andrew offers to drive me in, but I take the train. I hit the C Note around midnight, ready to see one of the bands Chloe and I used to follow around the city. They sent out a text blast at ten, announcing the surprise show.

  Chloe’s sitting at our old table.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” I say. I don’t sit down. I’m pretty sure Chloe doesn’t want me to.

  “Have a seat,” she says, and motions for a server to come over and take my drink order.

  “I don’t want to cramp your style,” I say, still standing. “I just wanted to say hello.”

  “Don’t be an ass,” she says. “Sit.”

  “I got the feeling you were avoiding me.”

  “I am avoiding you,” she says. “I’m so mad at you. You hurt me so badly.”

  “I know, Chlo,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” she practically spits. “You hid something from me for months. Months! And when I did try to call you out on it, you lied. Right to my face. We’ve never lied to each other before.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “I wouldn’t have judged you,” she says. “I don’t judge you.”

  “I don’t judge you, either.”

  Chloe responds with a look. And then: “My flavors of the week? That’s not judgmental?”

  “That’s just the truth,” I say, laughing. Chloe does not laugh back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re totally right. I’m totally wrong. Will you accept my apology?”

  “I’m so mad,” Chloe says. “So, so mad.”

  “Maybe you should write a blog about how mad you are,” I say. “I hear there’s a real market for that sort of thing.”

  Chloe can’t help but laugh. She mutters something to the effect of “I should write a blog about you,” but the club’s getting a bit louder since the band’s about to come onstage.

  “What can I say?” I ask. “I’m so sorry. Do you think you could ever forgive me?”

  “Sure,” Chloe says. “Forgiven. But I think the real question is: How can I ever trust you again?”

  “I promise, Chlo,” I say. “I will gain your trust back. Just give me a chance.”

  Chloe leans over and hugs me. I hug her back tightly. I don’t let go until she breaks away from my grasp.

  “Enough,” Chloe says. “I get it. You’re sorry. Okay, enough of the pity party. You’re never going to guess who’s coming here tonight.”

  Max, I think. Max, Max, Max.

  “Who?” I ask. Already, the edges of my mouth are turning up. I feel my pulse race, my entire body heat up—I can barely stay in my seat. He’s here. It’s happening. I’m going to get him back.

  “Rockboy1983,” Chloe says, and I try to hide my disappointment. But Chloe knows. Chloe always knows. “Who did you think it would—Oh, Jo.”

  “No! No one! In fact, that’s exactly what I thought.” I say. “I’m so excited you’re finally meeting your rocker boy.”

  “He’s not a rocker boy,” Chloe says. “Turns out, he’s a rock climber.”

  “He climbs rocks?” I ask. “I never understood how that was an actual sport. Football, basketball, these are sports I can understand. But climbing rocks? Why would anyone want to do that?”

  But then I remember someone who does like to do that. Someone I know very well. And then I remember who Rockboy1983 is: engaged to a woman only because she recently announced she was pregnant.

  “So,” I say, “if you’re meeting him, I guess this means that he broke off his engagement?”

  “Yeah,” Chloe says. “It’s actually pretty awful. She found out she wasn’t really pregnant a full three months before she told him about it. That was the first time we were supposed to meet. But then she begged him for another chance, so he gave it to her since they were already engaged and everything. I guess he felt bad, since her mother had already booked a venue for the wedding, already put a deposit down on a wedding gown.”

  “What happened?”

  “He could never forgive her for lying,” she said. “He never got over the fact that she lied and didn’t come clean for so long. I mean, can you blame the guy?”

  “No,” I say. “I can’t.” And I can’t help but think of Max. Will he ever forgive me for all the lies I’ve told? The way I hid our relationship from my friends? From my family?

  “This isn’t the same as you and Max,” Chloe says, reading my mind.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No,” she says. “He knew what was happening all along. He helped you build the Web site, for God’s sake! And the night of that first interview, he was the one who went along with the ruse that you two weren’t together. He was complicit in the whole thing. I think he just needs a little time to realize that this whole thing isn’t as bad as it seems.”

  “Do you really think so?” I ask, but Chloe’s already glancing toward the front of the bar. I turn around to look at what she’s seeing.

  “What is your brother doing here?” she asks, but I already know. It takes Chloe a second to get there. Rockboy1983—the guy who got engaged to a girl only because she thought she was pregnant—is my brother. And that’s why he got engaged to, and then broke it off with, Barbie. Not only was she not pregnant, but she actually let Andrew believe that she still was pregnant for three whole months while she planned her dream wedding.

  “Chloe?” my brother asks as he approaches our table.

  “Andrew?”

  “Why are you wearing a Runaways T-shirt?” he asks.

  “The same reason you’re wearing one,” Chloe says. “You’re Rockboy1983.”

  “And you’re BrokenHeartontheLES,” Andrew says.

  I excuse myself as they sort things out. I find a tiny corner by the front door and dial a familiar number on my cell.

  “Max,” I say to his voice mail. “I’m sorry. I messed up. I took you for granted—I took us for granted, and I never should have done that. If you give us another chance, I promise things will be different. I’ll appreciate what we have the next time around. Let’s just try this again, okay?”

  The band comes on to play, so I walk back to Chloe’s table to see how she and Andrew are doing—I’m ready to deflect the situation if things have gotten beyond awkward. But when I get there, I see that I’m not needed. They’re up from their seats and on the dance floor. Dancing very, very close. A little too close for my eyes to take right now, but I’m sure I’ll adjust to my best friend and my brother hanging out, right?

  Right?

  I immediately head to the bar to start drinking shots.

  47 - Only the Lonely

  Blog comment from Tedthearchitect:

  We met at Rodeo Bar and you gave me your number. But then my jacket got stolen at a downtown af
ter-hours club. You said your favorite movie was Say Anything and I told you that you weren’t old enough to have seen that movie. Meet me at the Rodeo Bar this Thursday at 8?

  Blog comment from darknightrises:

  Give me another chance, Angie, and I promise I’ll do better. I’ll put you first. There won’t be any excuses. I know you still love me.

  Facebook comment from redyellowandblue:

  Is there anyone out there who still believes in love at first sight? Anyone secretly wish Jo was planning another party?

  48 - Runnin’ Around

  “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” the real estate broker asks me.

  “Probably,” I say. He’s showing me a studio apartment in a prewar building down in the 20s. It’s the third place we’ve seen today. The other two weren’t right—one was in a brand-new glassy building, and it was so sterile I could practically feel the white walls closing in on me. And the other was on the Upper East Side—a tiny ground-floor studio in a brownstone that would have been perfect, but for the fact I’m not ready to move so far uptown just yet. I may be turning into a responsible adult who pays rent on her own apartment, but I’m still taking baby steps. Moving to a neighborhood where everyone’s got a job, a husband, and a baby is just way too fast for me. So he took me to the 20s. Not quite Gramercy, not quite Chelsea, but somewhere between the two, it’s in my price range because it doesn’t have a fancy address. Or even a name for the neighborhood. (I’m sure at some point, it will be christened Chelmercy and the rents will go through the roof, but for now, I can afford it.)

  I kind of love the apartment, but I don’t want him to know that. I’ve never had to negotiate something like this before, but I’d imagine gushing about how much you love the place as soon as you walk in wouldn’t do much for your bargaining power.

  I asked my father to come with me to help haggle today, but he turned me down. Another speech about how he’d coddled me for too long, and it’s time I do things like this on my own. I was pretty proud of myself that I didn’t then ask my mother, who can never say no to me. (And is also a very good negotiator.)

  “You’re that Lonely Hearts girl,” he says. “I saw you on the news!”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Do you think they can do any better on the rent? My Web site kind of died and I’m pretty tight with funds.”

  “No,” he says. “Rent is firm. Need me to show you something else? Something more in your price range?”

  This is not how it happens in the movies. Isn’t there supposed to be some sort of back and forth here? Shouldn’t I be using my charm and moxie to get what I want? But then I think about how I negotiated all of the ads for the Lonely Hearts Club Web site. I didn’t hesitate—I just told the advertisers what I wanted, and they all fell in line. I can do this.

  “Listen,” I say. “I like it, but you’re going to have to cut the rent by about a third. And I’ll give you the first and last month’s as security, but I want two months free rent. I know that’s the going rate in the market now.”

  For the record, I do not know what the going rate in the market is right now.

  “You can have a quarter off,” the broker says. “No one’s doing a third. And I’ll give you the first month for free. But that’s the final offer.”

  “I’ll take it,” I say.

  “Congratulations,” he says. “You’re going to love it here.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I really think I am.”

  49 - Waiting on a Friend

  “Keep it, sell it,” Amber says. “Sell it. Sell it. Let’s wait a bit for that one.”

  I’m at Amber’s place—we’re supposed to be writing songs, but her assistant had an idea about how to raise some short-term cash for Amber: sell off more of her stuff. So far, she’s agreed to sell two of her cars, her beachfront property in Miami, and most of her jewelry. Money’s been trickling in from the sales, so she’s been able to keep her place in Manhattan so far.

  “I may be moving in with you soon if some more money doesn’t come in,” she jokes. “How big is that studio, anyway?”

  “Four hundred square feet,” I say.

  “Well, that’s plenty,” Amber says. “Before I move in, I’ll probably have to sell my shoe collection, anyway.”

  “The pocketbooks would never fit,” I say, remembering the tour of the apartment I got last time I was here.

  “Good point,” she says. “We’ll just have to write a song today that sells millions.”

  “That sounds like an excellent plan,” I say.

  “I had an idea about recording ‘When Will Tomorrow Be.’”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “My sound engineer wasn’t too happy about it,” she says. “So maybe it wouldn’t work, after all.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense,” I say. “Spill.”

  “I was thinking of going back to my roots, of doing an acoustic version,” she says. “Like the way you originally sang it.”

  “That sounds great,” I say. “Obviously, I arranged it that way, so I think that’s what works best for the song. What was the problem?”

  “My sound engineer doesn’t want me to do it that way,” she says. “He thinks we shouldn’t mess with what’s been working for me.”

  “Then maybe you need a new sound engineer,” I say. “I have a great one I’ve worked with.”

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to mess with what’s been working for me?” she asks. “Part of me wants to do something new, now that I don’t have to do what Alan always wants me to do, but part of me thinks that’s crazy. Why mess with a good formula?”

  I’m not sure how to respond. What I wanted to say—what was on the tip of my tongue—was this: Because it’s a formula. Because it’s disposable pop. It has no heft, no meaning. It’s nothing. And you’re better than that. You’ve let them convince you that all you are is a mess of big blonde hair and some hip gyrations, but you’re more than that. You can sing. You can play. You can write. You’re better than what they’ve made you.

  But instead, I ask, “What’s your gut telling you?”

  “That this apartment ain’t cheap,” she says and laughs.

  “What if you downsize?” I say.

  “It’s not just me,” she says. “I support my whole family back home. Extended family, too, all the way out to cousins thrice removed. Without me, they’d have nothing. They can barely make ends meet even with my financial support.”

  “Then you stick with what’s working,” I say.

  “But that’s the thing,” Amber says. “I don’t want to anymore. I want to do something different.”

  “I have an idea,” I say. “Why don’t you do both? Let’s record both—our version with my sound engineer and their version with your sound engineer. We let the one you like better drop first, and if it doesn’t catch on, we have the other one to fall back on.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Amber says. “Sort of like insurance.”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “Thanks, Jo,” Amber says. “I really appreciate the help.”

  “No problem,” I say. “Now, should we get to writing your next big hit?”

  “Definitely,” she says.

  So we do.

  50 - Sympathy for the Devil

  “When it’s true love, you just know,” Jesse says. And there it is. True love. “Yeah, man, you just know.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing, but there’s Jesse, live on MTV, telling a seventeen-year-old VJ that he has found true love. He proceeds to tell the VJ, a pretentious poser loser wearing an oxford shirt with a collared polo shirt over it, how he met Cassie, his true love, because he was arranging for me to sing onstage with her band.

  “Your ex, huh?” the VJ says, making a self-conscious grimace before continuing: “Does she sing as well as Cassie?”

  The crowd erupts into a round of ohs and ahs—MTV poser loser VJ, you’re so bad. He makes another grimace that is even more self-aware than the first and thr
usts the mike into Jesse’s face.

  “No one can sing as well as Cassie, man,” he says sheepishly.

  Bullshit, I think as I turn the television off. I can sing better than Cassie.

  I call the studio and book the next slot of time they’ve got free—Saturday morning. Then I call Amber and Chloe to see if they can meet me there. Having my newest friend and my oldest friend in the world there will give me some perspective. And hopefully motivate me to not waste another expensive session in the recording studio. Though I do have a bit of a nest egg going after selling “When Will Tomorrow Be” to Amber. She’s already recorded it, and it drops in four days. Which is perfect timing, since it turns out the only thing more expensive than renting an apartment in Manhattan is furnishing an apartment in Manhattan. I’ll be needing that first royalty check when it comes.

  The buzzer rings and I’ve forgotten that my parents were coming in to the city for lunch. I buzz them up and then set about straightening up the apartment. The nice thing about living in a tiny studio is that it doesn’t take very long to clean up. I can practically make the bed, wipe down the kitchen counter, and tidy the bathroom all at the same time.

  My mother walks in and starts telling my father where to put stuff. She has a bunch of my old vinyl records and a roll of double-sided tape. Before I have a chance to tell her that most of those records are collectors’ items, she’s creating a little vignette of vinyl on the wall. And I have to admit, it looks pretty kick-ass.

  “Your music,” my father says. “Right there on the wall. Pretty clever, huh?”

  “Yup,” I say.

  “I thought you’d be more excited about it?”

  “I’m having a little love-hate thing with my music right now,” I say. “It has nothing to do with the records. Though some of those were collectors’ items, you know.”

  “I know,” my father says. “I thought the same thing, too, at first. But you wouldn’t want albums that weren’t great on the walls, would you?”

  “Good point.”

  “What’s the love-hate?”