They shake.
“By the way,” the manager says, “get a new demo tape. You sound completely different. Hell of a lot better. Go to Soundworks over on Lincoln. They’ll cut you a deal if you can record at night. I know Mike over there. Tell him I told you to call.”
“Mike at Soundworks,” Scott says. “Will do. And thanks.”
See, this is why I moved here. Amy was always the audience to my thoughts. Now I’m left talking to myself.
Cabbing it back to the loft, I realize I work the night of the gig, so I’ll have to give up my best shift. That’ll cost me about a week’s worth of rent.
What’s a few more days of gyros and ramen noodles? This’s why I moved here. It’s rough. See what I mean, Jennifer?
Her name jars me.
What are you doing in my head?
No. I shake my head. I only played for you because … because you’re the last thing Amy spoke of before we finally died. Your name came off her tongue. I heard it.
I bat away these thoughts with my hand and then stare out the window at the passing three-flats until the cab drops me off in front of the loft. I stare up at the fourth-floor lights.
“Jonathan,” I say. “Stop thinking.”
We’re buried under the headstones at Dreamerz. Done. You moved; she didn’t. Now you have to make it worth it. Starting tonight. We had a good show. Got invited back—on our first outing.
“So put on a happy face.” Maybe I’ll believe it.
I jaunt up the four flights of stairs, taking them by twos, and pull open the door. Scott’s stepping out of the freight elevator with a crate of wires in his hands. Kenny follows with mic stands. AnnMarie drags her drum crates out, and then Nancy emerges with her Apple and MIDI sequencers. The only people that we invited who bothered to show up—Lynda, Wendy, Chris, and Jennifer—crouch next to the stereo. Someone slips in the Revolting Cocks’ Beers, Steers, and Queers, filling the loft with a solid industrial throb. Ron’s camera flashes.
Twenty minutes later, all the gear sits at the center of the loft, ready for our next rehearsal.
I slump to the floor and lean against my keyboard case.
Her smile in place, Nancy puts her hand on my shoulder. “Good show, front man.”
“Yeah, but where was everyone?” I ask. “Everyone else who’d promised to come? All the waitrons who said, ‘Sure, I’ll be there.’ Just like in Ohio. Nothing but talk. I thought they’d … I don’t know. Be different here.”
“People are people,” Scott says, “wherever they are.”
“They’re always going to each other’s damned plays, their improv and dance performances, but for us—”
“Chill out.”
“If it’s the same everywhere, why did we bother coming? Giving up so—”
“Hey. Smoke a cigarette before you have a stroke.”
Nancy takes the cigarette from her mouth and puts it between my lips. “Deep breath. Nicotine relaxation.”
I inhale deeply, closing my eyes.
“It was Thursday after all,” Nancy says, looking even more amused than usual. “No one could find it. They were all too hungover. Or they had to work. Or they were getting laid, watching reruns of The Love Boat, giving themselves enemas …”
“Okay,” I say, blowing out the smoke. “Yes. We had a good show. Frustrated’s all. I should know better. I do. But you guys did.” I wave my palm at the five of them. “Look. Really. Thank you. For being there. I appreciate it. We appreciate it. This toast’s for you. All five of you.”
“That’s better,” Wendy says. “Flakes are part of life, like cold sores.”
“Cold sores,” I say, scoffing. “You never know which lips to not kiss. Oh, here.” I get up and step over to the turntable. “I picked up a new twelve-inch single. ‘East West,’ by Armageddon Dildos. It’s giving me some ideas.” I slip the disk from the cover and lower the tone arm, and the danceable industrial rhythm pours out. From there the party simply flows on.
Eventually I find myself talking to Jennifer, alone, and she’s smiling and laughing, which makes her look very pretty—perhaps even forgivable. You didn’t know what Amy would think. Hell, I didn’t.
“By the way,” I say, “you never told me what you thought of ‘So Long, So Wrong.’”
“I don’t really know. I mean, I like it.”
“That’s good. At least.”
She furrows her brow. “It’s better than a lot of stuff. What I’m hearing on the radio,” she says. “Better than your earlier stuff too.”
“Even better.”
“It’s thicker. Like you’ve added sauce.” She grins sheepishly.
“Added sauce? First time I ever heard that,” I say.
Then Chris tells Jennifer they need to take off.
Walking them over to the door, I feel relieved she’s going.
“Thank you both for showing up.” Then I remember the fliers for the new show.
“Hang on. Chris, we’re going to need fliers for the next show. Can you help with that?”
“Oh, sure,” she says.
“I’ll call tomorrow with the details.”
As they walk down the stairs, I wave at them through the doorway.
I get back to the party, but now everyone starts taking off except Lynda. That’s fine by me, as what energy I have left is crumbling into exhaustion. Once I’ve said the last good-bye, I stroll to my mattress and pass Lynda pressing Scott up against a column, her red hair cascading over his shoulders.
First time I’ve ever seen Scott allowing that. Night’s getting odder by the moment.
After crawling under my covers, I try to sleep, but the purrs and heavy breaths of the two lovers keep pulling me back to being completely awake whenever I get close to sleeping. I try putting the pillow over my head, but it feels claustrophobic. Then the rustling of sheets, her gasps of air and his grunts, and the thuds of the mattress being pounded make the empty space in my bed far too lonely; this drives me out of bed, back into clothes, and out into the street.
I don’t know where I’m going, exactly—only away until I’m so exhausted I know I can sleep. Then I remember seeing this place—Uncle J’s Diner—about a twenty-minute walk down North Avenue at Ashland, and decide to get something to eat there.
North Avenue is desolate at 4:00 a.m. When the rare car does appear, it creeps along, the driver examining the dissipated hookers exhibiting themselves alongside the dark, lonely avenue, finding a reason to do what a black Maverick is now: slowing to a stop next to a woman in a short red dress, who leans down to the window. In a moment, she tosses away her cigarette, opens the door, and climbs in. The Maverick pulls away.
Most of the buildings are empty and in disrepair. The few occupied storefronts I pass wait for the morning in darkness, with hand-painted wooden signs and displays of sun-bleached merchandise behind smutty windows.
As I pass the corrugated-tin gate of a junkyard, a dog’s bark rips apart the silence.
I jerk away.
“Fucking asshole dog,” I shout, flipping off the tin gate.
Now very aware of how alone I am, walking late at night in Spanish gangland, on a deserted street full of darkened windows and boarded-up doorways, alone with the hookers and johns, I try to relax and convince myself that Ashland and that diner’s gotta be right around here, and that it’s still open.
Two blocks farther down. I see the glow from a sign that could be for the diner. I walk more quickly. I tell myself to not look back, no matter what I hear.
As the sign for Uncle J’s Diner grows larger and more distinct, the tangle of the last few days—of the arguments, of Amy leaving and Jennifer appearing, of Scott being with Lynda, of straight jobs and being broke, and of how long we’ve to go and how long we’ve already been going—all mixes with weariness and the surrounding desolation, making me w
ant only to curl up and sleep right here. When I arrive at the steps to Uncle J’s Diner, I turn to head back to the loft but realize that’s worse, with my empty mattress, and Lynda and Scott probably still going at it.
Light assaults my eyes when I step through the door of the diner. The thick odors of frying bacon, frying eggs, frying potatoes, deep-fat fryers, and hanging smoke envelop me; I’ve lost what little appetite I might have had, but I take the last open booth across from the half-full counter. Picking up the plastic-coated menu, I glance over the choices: “2 × 2,” “2 × 4,” “pigs in a blanket,” “waffles: plain, strawberry, and pecan,” “hash and eggs.”
Revolting.
Then a stoop-shouldered, pudgy woman, with her graying hair pulled back and tucked under a net, comes up to the table, order pad in hand.
“Cup of coffee. Black. Buttered white toast. That’s it.”
The coffee arrives first.
I watch steam rise from the cup for a couple of moments.
“Oh, that’s brilliant, Jon. Coffee to help you sleep.”
Looking around, I half-wonder what everyone else is doing here at this hour of the morning with their ashtrays overflowing with butts. Some are alone; a few sit in pairs, whispering. Most everyone’s glancing around. As if anyone would care what you’re talking about.
I need to stop thinking—to think of nothing until I’m too tired to think, and I can’t possibly stay awake, no matter what I hear.
Yet Jennifer keeps peeking into my thoughts, which makes me feel like I’m teetering on the brink of getting back together with Amy again. I catch my breath.
Don’t take this wrong, Jennifer, but what are you doing in my head?
My toast arrives, the plate thumping solidly on the table. I pick up the knife and smear the soft pat of butter on the browned white bread. I salt it and take a large bite. It’s crisp and soft at once.
You’re what—nineteen? A teenager.
I wash down the toast with water.
What? Amy redux, Jonathan?
Alone in this booth right now, I’ve no real answer.
I pick up a triangle of toast and take another two bites.
Don’t think so. But I don’t know so.
I tear off another bite, and as I chew, the ponderous smell of grease, the sick feeling in my belly, and depth of my exhaustion all congeal at once, and I feel so deeply tired—too tired to chew. Leaving most of the toast and untouched coffee on the table, I toss a five on the counter next to the cash register.
Looking down the long, dark corridor of North Avenue, I dread the long walk back. I want simply to be home and to crawl under my covers and pass out. Since there’s no chance of getting a cab all the hell way out here at this hour, I force a foot to take the first step. As the sounds of my steps are consumed by the empty night, it’s hard to tell the difference between what I’m seeing and what I’m imagining.
I must wonder if this has all been a mirage.
Chapter 26
Before They Vanish
—Jonathan—
A week’s passed since we played Sound Kitchen, and well, not much has happened.
I work tonight. Wednesdays are decent money, but I’m feeling anxious about needing to get something done today. Other than wait tables.
I grab a pen and start sketching out ideas for songs I’ve had floating around my head, but whenever I try to pin a few phrases down, they squirm away, leaving only ugly, uninteresting globs of words. Giving up on words, I dabble at the keyboard; my playing sounds ragged and half-dead, and finally, in disgust, I sit on the couch, glancing through an Interview, reading the comments from the lead singer of some band I’ve never heard of as he stares back from his enormous picture.
“Pretentious prick,” I tell the photo. “You’ve nothing to say. At all. Never do. Other than ‘Buy our new CD. It’s this. It’s that.’ Bullshit.”
Annoyed, I toss the Interview to the floor and lie down, my feet dangling off the armrest of the couch. I’m imagining a someday, long from now—the day I go into the magazine’s office and give my interview:
Interview—It’s been said that your songs come from your own relationships—your lovers.
Starks—Lovers? No. Only one, ever. Amy. But …
Interview—But?
Starks—You could say we were several lovers. So, yes, in a sense, my lover-s.
Interview—In a sense?
Starks—We were always only really Amy and me. But we played games. We pretended to have affairs—to be having affairs—when we were together. See, that’s “Amy’s Face.” What it’s about—playing at being many lovers for each other.
Interview—And so when will you get back—
Starks—Never. That’s dead. And gone.
Interview—I see. And so now, you’re looking for—
Starks—Oh, no. Not that. No. I can only take losing a lover—a lover like that—once. I’m eschewing lovers.
Interview—For?
Starks—Ever. At least for now. Can you get my smirk in here?
I point where I’m imagining the printed version of the magazine is, indicating where I’d like a smile to show.
Starks—Here. Me smiling right here. See, I know I can’t be alone forever. Not and stay alive. But I don’t want to talk about that anymore. Ask me something else.
Interview—Well, how are things now that you’ve moved to Chicago?
Starks—I don’t know. Really. I don’t.
Interview—You just had your first concert.
Starks—And nothing. Scanned all the papers, rags, everything. No write-ups. Only a couple of listings in “about town” sections. It’s a lot like Ohio. I’ve been wondering if coming here was so smart.
Interview—Really?
I shrug.
Starks—I gave up so much. Gotten nothing.
Interview—You mean, of course, Amy?
Starks—Always comes back to her, doesn’t it? That’s boring.
I stand up, ending the interview.
“That was almost fun,” I say, kicking the Interview across the floor. I still have an hour to kill before I leave for work, and I’m getting impatient.
I flip through a couple of magazines lying next to the couch, which I’ve looked through several times already, and I fling each one away so it hits the floor with a slap. Tossing my hands up in exasperation, I walk to the table and rifle through my work bag. Seeing my apron, I realize I forgot to wash it, and it smells like old restaurant. I toss it to the table and then find what I’d been looking in the bag for in the first place: Balthazar, the second book of The Alexandria Quartet.
First, though, I’m rinsing out the obvious spots on my apron, but two don’t want to come out, so I have to scrub at them; but I get it too wet, and I curse under my breath. Hate this crap. So I roll it up in a towel and squeeze all the moisture out as best as I can, and then I notice how late it’s gotten.
“Time to make the doughnuts,” I say, shaking my head. “Bullshit.”
A couple of minutes later, I’m buttoning up my starched blue work shirt when a knock at the loft’s door interrupts.
“Oh, what the hell, now?” I say to myself. Then I shout at the door, “Look, I’m late. You’ll have to wait.”
Fastening the last button on my way across the loft, I’m ready for my shift now. I pull open the door.
Randal gives a quick wave with a rolled-up newspaper.
“Come on in,” I say. “Scott’s not here, and I have to fly. You’re welcome to hang out.”
“What gives, man?” he says.
“Umm … I work?”
“Obviously you haven’t seen it.”
“Seen what?”
“The Reader. Just came out today,” he says, unfolding the one he’s holding to the music section. “Right there.” He points t
o an article:
Mercurial Visions
See Them Before They Vanish
G. Beaubien
Press releases are hype. They’re supposed to be, supposed to excite people about something, but most of the time, the copywriter is blowing hot air, and even the time spent seeing how full of BS he is isn’t worth it. But the copywriter of Mercurial Visions’ press release is the lead singer, and for once, every word was spot on; nothing was exaggerated. If anything, he was modest.
Simply put, this band rocks. All-original songs that avoid merely parroting postpunk or trying to sound “alternative”; their sound rides waves from the mellifluous to pounding dance anthems, from heartache to venom and regret. And Jonathan Starks—PR man, keyboard player, lead singer—sets them aloft, chased by Nancy Mauer’s richly sensual voice, which seems to have, finally, found a true home. The guitarist, Scott Marshall, knows he’s not Eddie Van Halen or Michael Schenker; nor does he even try to be, understanding guitars don’t have to be played fast and loud, or be the center of attention.
You will want to dance, pound your fists on the table, and sink into the luscious riffs, all in turn. “Just Walk Away,” their closing song, is a sure club single—one that will be on a radio near you soon.
And this was their first show—ever.
No insult to the Sound Kitchen—I’ve lost many a great evening there—but what is this band doing playing there? Cabaret Metro is where they belong.
Mercurial Visions is at Sound Kitchen one more night—next Saturday at midnight.
“Ho-ly shit,” I say.
Randal raises his hand, and I roll out my palm for his low-five.
“Party. Here. Tonight,” I say, and then I remember I’m late for work. “Crap,” I say. “I’ve gotta get gone, but Scott’s gonna get back soon. You two get the party going. I’ll get out of there as soon as I can. Then we can really party. Can you call the girls?”
“Sure.”
“All the girls. That means Tanya this time.”
“She’s not in Chicago anymore,” he says.
“’Scuse me?”
A Perfect Blindness Page 17