“You enjoy the show?” he asks with a mischievous smile.
“Come off it, Jonathan,” I snarl. “Don’t fuck with me like that.”
“Sorry,” he says, lifting his hands. “Bad joke. Sorry.”
“Look, if she’s going to be over again—”
“She won’t.” He shakes his head.
“When she comes over again,” I say. “Take your mattress to the other side of the loft.”
“Seriously. She won’t be. It was a freak alignment of the planets. My first and only one-night stand.”
“For future reference then. Move the mattress.” I step over to our “pantry”—bags of ramen noodles, boxes of mac ’n’ cheese and crackers, a can of Cheez Whiz, and a half-empty case of Diet Coke all sitting in a neat line on the floor against the wall. “Triscuits or Wheat Thins?”
“Any chicharrones—yummy pork rinds?”
“Nope.” I grab the box of Triscuits and the can of Cheez Whiz and then sit at the table.
“She’s here,” he says.
“Who? Amy Number Two?”
He winces.
I make a star on the cracker with the yellow-orange paste and pop it into my mouth. It’s stale and salty.
Then the door to the bathroom opens.
A tall woman steps out and struts toward us, half-naked in one of Jonathan’s white button-up work shirts. Her dark hair is cut asymmetrically, pointed at her jaw on one side and up to the lobe of her ear on the other. She looks almost as tall as me and seems she might have a good body under that shapeless shirt. She’s attractive yet not beautiful. Not even pretty. Her mouth is a little too wide, cheeks a touch too high, and her jaw a bit too square. She’s smiling as though she knows something no one else does.
For a few moments, the only sound is the padding of her bare feet on the concrete floor.
“Nancy,” Jonathan says, “Scott.”
“I feel like I know you,” she says. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Likewise,” I say. “Well, I’ve only ever heard you.”
Her expression doesn’t so much as flicker.
Standing, Jonathan offers his chair.
Giving a smile of approval, she accepts and sits. Casually, she picks up Jonathan’s pack of cigarettes and taps one out.
“Unfiltered. Mean.” She slides it between her too-wide lips.
“If you’re going to kill yourself,” he says, picking up his Zippo, “you may as well do it with style.”
He’s got this particular way of lighting one that only he can do. An undetectable flick of his finger pops the lid and then sparks the flint. There’s the metallic click, and the flame bursts to life right at the tip of her cigarette.
“You know,” she says, letting smoke dribble from the corner of her smile. “That’s why I talked to you in the first place.”
“My Zippo trick?”
“Uh-huh.” She nods.
I don’t trust her. Like her even less. She’s auditioning, too hard, to be Amy Number Two. Chicago’s supposed to be him and me. In a band. Together. Finally. Us. No Amys.
“How about we go out for breakfast?” she asks.
“Um,” Jonathan says. “Sure.” Then he looks at me.
“No Triscuits?” I ask.
“One,” she declares, taking the box. “Then we go out for real breakfast.” She holds a Triscuit out to me. “Cheez Whiz, mister?”
I slash the Triscuit with a fat stripe of orangey-yellow.
Jonathan watches her chew, looking faintly bewildered.
From his expression, I’m getting the impression that she’s not really like Amy after all, and that she’s not looking for him to make her life whole. She doesn’t need him—doesn’t need any rescuing.
But you want something. Everybody does.
“You know, Scott,” he says, “she sings.”
I stiffen.
“Saw her last night at Mad Bar. She’s damned good,” he says and then looks at her. “In fact, that’s the only reason I let you come home with me.”
“Best reason I can think of,” she says. “Now, let’s go, boys,” she says, standing up. “First, more clothes. I’d get into trouble were I to walk around like this.”
He leads her over to his mattress. She slips off his shirt and stretches out, displaying her naked body.
Instead of watching, I fold up the waxed-paper lining of the Triscuits and close the box with a snap.
Once we get dressed, we make the quick walk to Friar’s Grill, our corner greasy spoon. Through breakfast, I hold my tongue—even when Nancy waves good-bye and says she’ll see us at the auditions.
We step out of the other side of Friar’s Grill.
“Jonathan, what are you thinking here?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Auditions. Her.”
“I told Nancy about the audition after I heard her sing. She’s great.”
“She can’t be in the band. Not with you two involved. Won’t happen.”
“We’re not involved. At all.”
“What was last night?” I start toward the corner.
“A freak accident,” he says, skip-walking to catch up. “I slept with her—with the first woman other than Amy in years.”
“One: you’re incapable of only sleeping with someone. Two: this is our band. Not yours and mine and hers. Ours. Yours.” I jab his shoulder. “And mine.” I poke my chest.
“Whoa, slow up here. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you sleeping with somebody in the band. That if there’s a disagreement, it’ll be you two against me. Hell, with AnnMarie that’s maybe three against one. Or a standoff.”
“Stop,” he says, waving his hands. “What’s this us-against-you stuff? AnnMarie? Really? Nancy has a great voice. That’s the only thing that matters. She knows machines and sequencers too. We slept together. Once. My bad.”
“She’s not coming to the auditions.”
“Why?” He stops in the middle of North Avenue. “She’s got a great voice. You need to see her onstage. I’ve already got some ideas for her.”
“Exactly!” I say. “You and her, and not me.” I glare at him. “I don’t care what you do to her in bed. Keep her away from the band.”
“You can say no if you want, but you won’t. She fits what we’re trying to do here perfectly. Fits why we came here.”
“You’re not getting this.”
“No, I’m not,” he says, twirling around on one foot, hair flaring out. “We knocked boots. That’s it. Well, I found out I don’t like one-night stands. They leave me cold. There’s nothing between us. Except we both want to make great music.” He jumps up on the sidewalk and takes off walking.
“I don’t want your next obsession to be our next distraction. Especially at the auditions. Where we give our very first impressions in Chicago.”
“My obsession,” he says, “is alone. In Columbus. Where I left her. Scott, I didn’t even know if I could be with another woman before last night. Ever. Plus, I can’t call her and tell her not to show up.” He throws up his arms. “I don’t have her phone number. Hell, I don’t know her last name. Or if Nancy’s even her real name. If you don’t like her singing … whatever.” He pushes the discussion away with the flick of a hand.
“She’s not going to be in this band.”
“If that’s what you want,” he says.
“I do.”
“Fine.”
That means he’ll only answer in monosyllables for the next hour—“yeah,” “sure,” “fine”—like a sulky third grader.
Chapter 15
Lips, Thighs, and Sequencers
—Scott—
AnnMarie’s footfalls grow louder as she shows the next woman into the middle of the loft. I won’t look up. I’ve run enough auditions to under
stand intimidation. It shows this is my band, and that there will be no misunderstanding as to who’s in control. A professional-looking headshot of a good-looking woman falls next to my hand. AnnMarie motions the woman to stand in front of the table Jonathan and I are sitting behind. Playing the impenetrable assistant, AnnMarie walks back to the front door to meet anyone arriving for the audition. She then turns to listen.
The woman is tall and skinny in the same way as Jonathan—firm but not bony. She has electric green eyes and long, tightly curled red hair. I’m looking her over as if she were naked—a simple test of how easily someone gets intimidated. If she can’t take this, she can’t take the stage. Her eyes don’t flick away.
Next I look at her headshot again, flipping it over to see her experience. Only modeling. Nothing about singing. I’m not sure what she’s thinking. No experience, plus modeling is clearly her priority. Not what I have in mind, but she called and showed up. Only proper to give her a shot.
I hand the headshot to Jonathan, then write “29” on a page of the legal pad in front of me, and circle the number.
“Lynda, right?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, “Lynda Travers.”
I write her name down and then tap my pen twice. “So, you don’t show any experience on your headshot,” I say.
“I’ve experience, but singing doesn’t sell photos so doesn’t go on my headshot. Plus what’s the use of listing a bunch of bands no one’s ever heard of. I could have made them all up. I’ll tell you them if you want,” she says.
“No need,” I say. Good, gutsy answer. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“I think you’ll like it,” she says, with a flirty look.
She’s the type used to getting special treatment by trading on lust and her looks. To that I’m impervious. I write a “No” next to her name, underline it twice, and sit back.
Her singing is quite good but too pop. She’d do well in a girl group. Absolutely not what we’re looking for.
Finishing, Lynda stands, breaking out her bright model’s smile, full of so-white teeth.
“Thank you,” I say. “We’ll call to let you know if we need to talk more.”
“Will you be having callbacks?” she asks.
“Not unless we need them. We’ll decide in the next day or two.”
“Thank you,” she says, and then she catwalks past us, the short skirt and three-inch heels making her long legs even longer.
Jonathan leans over and whispers, “Way too mainstream. What the hell would we do with that?”
“I agree. Totally.”
“We haven’t seen anybody worth talking to.” Shifting in his seat, he runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it into a ponytail and then letting it fall free around his shoulders.
“We’ve still got a few more to go,” I say. “It’s not like we haven’t been through several rounds of auditions to find someone before.”
AnnMarie walks over. “We’ve got a break,” she says. “The next person isn’t here for fifteen minutes.”
“Good,” Jonathan says, standing up to stretch. “I need to move around.”
I lift up the top of a plastic cooler and sift through the ice water. I pull out a can of pop, an arc of water following and spilling across the concrete. “A refrigerator and working outlets. Luxuries I’d love.”
“Hotplate’s not working out so well?” AnnMarie asks.
“The only working outlets are all the hell way over here.” I pop the top of the can, and then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement in the doorway. Ron’s leaning on the door frame, his camera draped around his neck.
“Hey man,” I say.
“I’m here to photograph the first meeting of the lineup for Mercurial Visions,” Ron says.
“Got room for a poor lost singer?” Nancy asks, stepping around Ron’s elbow.
“Just so happens we do,” Jonathan says.
“My lucky day.” She slides into the loft, wearing a very short skirt, black stockings, and a cryptic smile that makes her look as if she’s in on some amusing secret.
“Any luck for you today?” Nancy asks.
“So-so,” I say.
“Better than bad,” she says. “This’ll be fun. No?” She raises her eyebrows, looking directly at me.
I sit bolt upright in my chair and place my hands on the table in front of me. “This isn’t for fun. This is extremely serious business,” I say.
“Too bad,” she says, still smiling. “This could be fun. But I’ll do it your way.”
“Yes. You will.” I ignore Jonathan shifting around in his seat.
She stands up to the mic and closes her eyes.
Crossing my arms, I sit back.
She lolls her head to the right. Her almost-black hair falls across an eye, over a cheek, along her nose, brushing the slit of her lips. She slides her hands, slowly, down and between her legs.
Then she opens her mouth.
Her voice gushes rich and lush as her legs and hands slide along the mic stand as if it were a lover’s body. She takes the shaft, rubs herself along it, and then climbs into my imagination; now it’s me she’s rubbing between her legs. As she crawls through my mind, she’s exposing thoughts I don’t want found, stroking them until they are swollen and hard: thoughts of what that mouth has done to Jonathan—thoughts that superimpose themselves on her mouth while her lips stroke each sound, as she sucks at the words, her tongue flicking, her head moving forward and back and again, her hair swinging in time with the beat until it erupts into a warm, wet arc of tone, timbre, and melody.
I feel like jumping out of my seat. I need to shake out the images she’s putting into my head—I can’t let her fondle my mind like this—yet she’s pressing the mic stand against her belly, slipping her thigh down its length, sliding it between her legs, up then down; and she lures me back into being that piece of metal between her legs, touching her the way Jonathan did, wishing I could peel away their clothes and see what she saw. All the while, I keep imagining what she did to him while I lay awake that night, listening to them—“Oh, oh, ohhhhh.” And then, as I watch her thumb smearing dark cherry-red lipstick along her lower lip, I notice how quiet it is; she’s stopped singing. Everyone is looking at me. Jonathan’s grinning like an imp.
“Serious enough for you?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. My thoughts are still swollen, and I cannot sit comfortably. “I really need to go to the bathroom.” Shoving my hand into my pocket to hide the bulge she’s made grow, I stand and hobble off, one leg awkwardly stiff.
Pushing through the bathroom door, I start unzipping and peeling down my jeans. “Fuck you,” I say to the bulge in my underwear, slamming open the stall door. “Goddamn you.”
Locking the door behind me, I pull down my underwear. My perverse erection leaps free.
“You son of a bitch,” I hiss at it. “Damn it! I decide when and who. Not you. This crap doesn’t happen—not to me,” I say, yet I’m still seeing how she worked the mic, imagining how she must have worked Jonathan with those lips, his slender, tight body getting sucked—
“Fuck this!” I slam the heel of my hand against the metal wall of the stall, and the boom fills the room, echoing around.
I’m sure you heard that, and now you’re both so pleased with yourselves.
I grab the swollen piece of my flesh, and I strike it with my fingernail. It stings. “Not,” I say, striking it again, “to”—and again—“me.”
Finally my body starts obeying and the erection goes limp and shrinks from my palm. I slip it back into my underwear, straighten out my jeans, and zip up.
“Now,” I say. “Time to deal with Mercurial Visions.”
Nancy’s better than I had hoped for. By far the best we’ve seen. The only one I’d consider hiring.
“But why did you have to sleep wi
th her, Jonathan?” I ask. “Do you like making things more complicated than they should be?”
Leaving the stall, I walk to the door and take a deep breath, preparing to admit that yes, he was right.
It’s time to get to business.
I yank the door open and stride to the table. The three of them watch as I cross the floor. Ron has his camera to his eye.
“Well then,” Jonathan says with calculated nonchalance. “What do you think?”
I close my eyes and sigh. “Yes. I see what you mean.”
“Great,” he says. “Do we even want to bother with the others?”
“Of course we do,” I say. “We’re professional, right? We had them come all the way here. So we let them sing. We might need some of these people again. If only as audience members.”
“True,” he says.
“So,” Nancy says, “I’ll bring my equipment along to rehearsal: lips, thighs, and sequencers.”
Ron steps back. He vanishes behind pops of brilliant white light.
Chapter 16
Another Stupid Tanya Thing
—Jennifer—
“Jennifer,” our receptionist says on the speaker, “Mr. Beardsley again. Line two.”
I pick up the phone. “Tell him I’ll call him back in fifteen, okay? Thanks.” I hang up.
“Okay,” I say to Kenny. He’s sitting at my desk at Les Femmes. We’re looking over his headshots and comps, and deciding what he needs to get his compcard ready. A lot.
“How old is this?” I ask, holding up a glossy eight-by-ten.
“Couple of years.”
“Looks older,” I say, leaning over to him, getting serious. “You’re pretty. Everyone says that. You know it. So, yes, pretty boy needs to be here. But you’ve got this androgynous look, which is really hot right now. This shot looks like it’s for a shopping-mall boy band. It’s outdated, and it’s not your strongest suit—at all.”
He rumples his face. At least he’s not fragile. A lot of kids tear up when I get after them like this. I’ve stopped trying to set them straight about how this works, telling them that, unlike in a movie, when I say good-bye, there won’t be that last-second call to replace the star who got sick. That’s the hope I always see glistening in the tears. I can’t stand that.
A Perfect Blindness Page 10