A Perfect Blindness

by W. Lance Hunt

  I snap the cap back onto the lipstick and march back into the darkness.

  Wendy’s alone, smirking.

  I stop and look around. “Where is he?” I stomp my foot.

  Wendy looks at me and bursts into laughter.

  “My god,” she says after catching her breath, “you should have been here. Oh, Jesus. You should have seen the expression on their faces when they figured out they were in way too deep.”

  “Where the hell is he?” I ask.

  “He who? That blond?”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Wendy says.

  “Oh, that’s just great.”

  “What do you care?”

  “He probably thinks I’m some sort of a cock tease,” I say.

  “So what? Who cares what he thinks? What anyone thinks? We’re here to have fun, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But still.”

  “Still what? Let him think what he wants.”

  “But I’m not like that,” I say. “I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. Who I really am. And I am not a cock tease. I’m not a bitch either.” I look around. “I’m going to find him.”

  “And say what?” Wendy asks. “‘Oh, you misunderstood; I’m only pretending to get free drinks’? Sit your ass down. Forget about him. Think about what we’re here for. We’re on a mission. Of fun.”

  “Yeah,” I say, sitting back down. What can I say?

  I slump onto the bar. Still, it pisses me off that he has the wrong idea. I am who I am, not anything else. Now Chris is going to be working with him.

  “Fucking wonderful,” I say to my beer.

  Chapter 20

  That Ring

  —Jennifer—

  “Jen,” my mother says through the door to my room with that annoying trace of a French accent she tries so hard not to lose. “Are you staying for dinner?”

  “Already ate,” I say, sitting on the edge of my bed, dragging my toes through a pile of clothes next to the stack of magazines Charlene and I used to read to find pictures of the apartments we liked. Some are hanging on the walls, along with band posters and shots from the kind of life we would lead when we lived together. But Charlene’s living a different life, without me.

  I should probably take them down, right?

  But it’s too late today. Chris will get here soon to take me to a rehearsal at that band’s loft—for “moral support,” she said. I don’t want to go, but it’s better than sitting around here. I drag myself up from bed, grab my lipstick, and then purse my lips at the mirror. I run the oxblood color around my lips.

  Looking at the mess in my room, I see a necklace sticking out from under a magazine, an Illinois Entertainer. I lift the edge and see a jumble of jewelry, including some rings.

  Wearing a ring will keep mister keyboard player from getting all hot and bothered.

  I scoop up several and pick through them, trying on the ones might work, first one at a time, and then in pairs, and twice in triplets. Disgusted with them all, I toss those rings back under the magazine. Pushing a napkin aside, I untangle several more from a chain necklace with an ankh pendant.

  Off falls the ring I bought for Billy—a simple white-gold band. It was a token of what I had thought had been love. He was twenty when we met at Smart Bar; I was sixteen; he took me everywhere—to clubs, to parties, to dinners—and everywhere, he knew people. He introduced me, and I loved it—being a club-girl Cinderella; I thought I loved him too. Everything I’ve ever read and all the shows I’ve ever seen have made clear that a token of love makes the couple stronger. But the day I gave him this token of my feelings—the ring: a simple, white-gold band that cost me every penny I had then—he looked scared, not happy.

  The next morning, holding the ring between his thumb and forefinger, he told me that he was too old, I was too young, and that I was better off without him. He said that he’d “struggled with this realization” and he was “… only thinking of you. You could do so much better.”

  “Consolations like the spit in a rapist’s hand,” I whisper.

  The moment he gave me back the ring, I wished I had been born short, fat, and ugly. Then men wouldn’t only want my body. They’d care about who I am, not what I look like. The one thing I have, my looks, is a curse that has always returned to hurt me. I’ve told Wendy this is why I can’t trade on my looks. She says that “it’s the only way to get revenge on all the assholes—turn the hurt into cash.”

  But then I’d be a hypocrite. Or something worse.

  That ring lies on the floor, a reminder that men want my body and the right to brag they had it, and nothing more. Tonight, though, I slip the band onto my ring finger and hold up my hand. Now, I look married. Definitely not interested. Definitely not available.

  Hearing the doorbell, I shove my lipstick and lighter into the pockets of my jeans.

  “Jen,” my mother calls, “Chris is here.”

  “Coming.” I rush to the door and slip through, shutting it behind me before anyone can see in.

  Chris follows my mother into the living room. My mother is short, slender, and French-looking, with her long, thin nose; short-cropped sandy-blonde hair; and high cheeks. She eats little to keep her figure, trying to avoid becoming thick like her peasant mother in the Vosges. She hated everything about living in the countryside. She’s pushed me to get an education and learn to speak good French—to do everything to escape being lower class. That’s why she married my father, an ex-diplomatic attaché from Saigon—to be sophisticated, upper class; to escape. But that route ended years ago in an angry divorce. I’ve heard nothing from my father in years.

  Her second husband, my stepfather, works for UPS, delivering packages, and the only thing French about him is his last name: Gaultier. My mom fights a constant war to keep what part of her upper-class status she feels she has left after divorcing her attaché. Her obsession with France and a high-class life is annoying. She always talks about how wonderful Paris is—how much better it is than Chicago.

  Sometimes I want to yell that we’re blue-collar suburbanites in Chicago. She’d never hear me, though. All she really wants is a slender figure, her memories of what was, and dreams of what could have been.

  When I took Spanish rather than French in high school, she hardly said a word. I think that was when she stopped really trying with me.

  As soon as I say hello to Chris, I say good-bye to my mother and start leading Chris back to the front door.

  “It was nice seeing you again, Mrs. Gaultier,” Chris says.

  “What time are you going to be home?”

  “Not too late,” I say. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Your father will be home late.”

  “I’ll be quiet.”

  My mother smiles stiffly and goes into the kitchen.

  “You heard anything from Charlene?” Chris asks.

  “No. It’s like she moved to another planet.” I pet my cat, Sarabeth, on the head. “Let’s get out of here.”

  As soon as we get outside, Chris says, “I was up all night putting my portfolio together. I know they’re going to love it. It’s … Yeah. This is gonna be very cool.”

  “It’ll be great. A real break,” I say. I should feel happy for her, but I can’t; I’m annoyed that Charlene left me stranded at home by marrying that guy and has hardly bothered calling. Now I’m envious of Chris having this chance to do something she really wants.

  I hate everything about tonight: another shitty scene in Jennifer’s life.

  “You know,” Chris says, getting into her Maverick, “I think the singer has a crush on you.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Just saying.”

  “I’m staying single,” I say, slamming the door shut. “They only want what’s between your legs. For camouflage, for an accessory, or
for another notch in their belt.”

  “I don’t know,” Chris says. “At least he’s got something going on. He’s not full of it like most of the creeps who hit on you. Plus he’s kinda sexy—moves like a cat, all slinky and smooth. The hair.”

  I ignore her.

  Chris pulls out of the driveway and starts toward North Avenue. It’s about a half hour to drive from Lombard to Wicker Park, and I really don’t want to talk about this the whole way, so I turn up the volume on Depeche Mode’s new single, “Strangelove.”

  She’s quiet while I stare out the window at one of Chicago’s low-rent ’burbs. I see all-the-same-looking small houses with the all-the-same-looking lawns and carports, except for the occasional stop ’n’ rob or boarded-up house with an overgrown lawn.

  “You can be his friend,” Chris finally says. “For me. Let me get in good with them, and then forget about it. Only for tonight.”

  I sigh. I don’t have the energy to explain why I don’t want to.

  “He talks enough,” Chris says. “You can probably just nod and smile every once in a while. He’ll have the conversation for the both of you. Who knows. You might even like him.”

  “I don’t want to like anyone.”

  “Girl. Not like like. I mean like hanging around. Like as in friend like.”

  “I don’t feel friendly right now.”

  I twist Billy’s ring round on my finger and then hold my hand up to see how it looks.

  “My god,” Chris says. “That ring.”

  I close my hand and cover it.

  “You never wear that.”

  “I guess.”

  “Why now?”

  “I look taken,” I say.

  “Well, perfect,” she says. “Now you can be nice to him no problem.”

  “Can I see your stuff?” I ask, leaning into the backseat and grabbing the paint-speckled brown portfolio. I spend the rest of the ride looking through Chris’s drawings and sketches. They impress me as usual, and that makes tonight even worse; I feel envious—and then guilty because of what I feel. She’s my friend. I can’t be envious that she has a talent. But I’d trade my body, my eyes, and my face for half of what she has.

  We talk about her work the rest of the way to Wicker Park.

  “Rock-star parking,” Chris says, pulling up to the curb directly in front of the door to the loft. I watch her jump out of the car and then stretch over the seat to take the portfolio from me. I open the door slowly and step out, sighing, knowing tonight’s going to suck.

  “Hurry up,” she says, holding open the glass door of the building.

  First I need a cigarette to help me put on the right face as I walk into the loft, letting everyone, Jonathan especially, know how totally not interested I am.

  I light up, take a deep drag, and then follow Chris up the worn stairs.

  Isn’t this supposed to be fun—hanging out with a band at rehearsal? Especially in an edgy loft?

  These things always look great on MTV. Most people would kill to get invited, but I did nothing; and here I am, hating it.

  On the fourth floor, a large, gunmetal-gray door protects me from going in. I can still leave. Go to Mad Bar or Holiday or Artful Dodger.

  Chris reaches around me to pull on the metal handle, and the door opens with a metallic groan. “They said just come on in.”

  “Course they did.”

  Chris walks in first.

  Ron’s sitting on the floor, leaning back on a column, his camera resting on his knees. He looks over, and his camera is up and flashes before I take my second step. Closer to the middle is the band. Nancy, who always seems to be smiling about something, strokes her mic stand with a leg. AnnMarie waves her drumsticks at us from behind the array of polygonal black electronic drumheads. Jonathan turns on his stool. He smiles.

  Next to him, the guitarist Scott stands, holding the neck of his guitar so he looks like an oversize, muscular number 4. He glances at me and then at Jonathan, shaking his head. With a sour look, he turns away.

  What’s his problem?

  “Grab a piece of the floor,” Jonathan says. “We’re about to start.” He points to Chris’s portfolio. “Hang on to that. We want you to give a listen first.” He walks his fingers along the keys before flicking his hair back over his shoulders.

  I feel a nudge on my leg. Ron holds out a beer.

  “By the way, guys,” Jonathan says. “The Sound Kitchen called today. They want us to play Thursday after next.”

  “There we go!” Nancy says.

  AnnMarie raps out a drumroll.

  Ron snaps several shots.

  “Nine days, folks,” Scott says. “So we’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do. We need a solid forty-minute set. Right now we’ve got, what … four songs down well enough. This is our first gig. The tape we gave them was from Columbus. We’ve gotta be better than that old thing. We want to knock ’em on their asses.”

  “Aye, aye, Bossman,” Nancy says. “What’s first?”

  “‘Sammy’s Face.’ We’ll limber up on that.”

  “You mean ‘Amy’s Face’?” Nancy asks.

  “Yes,” Scott snaps.

  “Who’s this Sammy guy?” Nancy asks, her smile crooked.

  “Samantha,” AnnMarie says. “Old girlfriend. Got, um, killed. Car crash.”

  “Oh,” Nancy says. “Sorry.”

  “Long time ago,” Scott says. “Another life. Let’s get on to now—the show we’ve got coming up.”

  Listening, I’m impressed in spite of wanting to find out they’ve got no real talent, like so many of Tanya’s hangers-on. I enjoy watching them so much that I don’t even notice the time pass; it’s after midnight when they wrap.

  “Overall, damned good,” Bossman Scott says. “But we still need to get tighter. And nail down ‘So Long, So Wrong.’ Tomorrow, then. Everyone can make it, right?”

  “An hour later,” Jonathan says. “La Moloko.”

  “Nine o’clock then,” Bossman says. “Chris, your portfolio.” He shakes his head. “I’m wiped. Can you swing by tomorrow. Early? Eight, eight thirtyish?”

  Chris’s shoulders fall. “Sure. Sure. That’s … fine.”

  “Probably better,” Jonathan says, jumping up and stretching. “You know the sound better now. You’ve heard what we’re trying to do. It’ll give you some ideas, right?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “You’re right. I’ve already got some ideas I was thinking about. So yes. See you tomorrow.” She’s smiling again.

  They start turning gear off, and Ron takes a couple of photos. I dislodge a cigarette from the bottom of my pack and slip it between my lips, and suddenly, a Zippo bursts into a flame at its tip. I step back, surprised anyone could sneak up on me like that. I nod a thank-you to Jonathan as I exhale.

  “De nada,” he says, slipping the Zippo into the lighter pocket of his jeans like a gun into its holster.

  Now I see what Chris was saying; he is sorta sexy, with intense eyes of some color I can’t pin down. But I ain’t doing boyfriend again. Not ever.

  “So, Melissa, eh?”

  “No,” I say. “That was—”

  “I like Melissa. The tragic lover in The Alexandria Quartet.”

  “But … Wait. You recognized that?”

  “With Justine? Of course.”

  “Nobody gets that.”

  “I’m not nobody,” he says, and gives a laugh. “Those morons didn’t belong there. Gotta scare them away somehow.”

  I want to tell him I’m not really who he saw that night. But what’s the difference between acting like it and being it?

  “Nice ring,” he says.

  “Ring?”

  He holds up his left hand, points to the ring finger, and then strokes it with his thumb and forefinger.

  I hide my hand. “T
hat. It’s nothing. From a long time ago.”

  He nods as if he actually understands what happened with Billy and this ring.

  “Gonna swing by tomorrow?” he asks as AnnMarie strolls over.

  “No,” I say. “Plans.”

  “Tearing up the town are we?”

  “No. We always go to Neo on Wednesdays.”

  He looks to AnnMarie for help.

  “Goth-industrial club,” she tells him. “Lots of concrete, mirrors. Ladies’ night Wednesdays.”

  “Ahhhh,” he says. “Free booze.”

  “Good music,” I say.

  “Good reason to avoid hearing us play the same song ten times in a row. Perhaps you’ll stop by some other time. Might actually get to talk to you.”

  So you can try to slip off my panties? No chance.

  As I walk toward Chris, the phone rings.

  “Jonathan,” Bossman Scott calls out a moments later, phone in hand, with the same sour look he had earlier. “For you.”

  He runs toward the phone, leaping, and sliding the last part in his sock feet.

  Everything’s wrong tonight, as it has been since I drove to Michigan. Especially Jonathan—he’s leaning against the wall, making beckoning gestures at the phone, as if he expects whoever it is to crawl out of it.

  Nope. Never coming back here.

  Chapter 21

  Un-Normal

  —Jennifer—

  The Wednesday mob at Neo is relievingly normal.

  In the smoky semidarkness, someone jostles my stool, trying to squeeze through the people crowding the raised concrete bar area. It’s railed off like a balcony, overlooking the empty dance floor, though it’s too early for any dancers. Wendy’s sitting next to me on a stool, facing away from the bar, talking to a very pretty young girl with dark hair. Work or pleasure? Can’t tell: Music’s too loud.

  My fingers tap out the solid rhythm on the concrete bar, which feels cool against my forearms. As usual, people are checking each other out in the mirror behind the bar as they drink. Chris will be by later. Charlene won’t. But that’s gotten normal.