A Perfect Blindness

by W. Lance Hunt

  “What can I say? They bitch about not having enough money. I’m giving them the chance to make money. On prime, big-money nights. What do they want? To get paid for breathing?”

  “I don’t know if I can give you all your requests off,” the manager said.

  I pegged my eyes on his. “I need you to understand. My music is more important to me than any one job. If I can’t get the time off I need here, I’ll have to go somewhere I can.”

  “That a threat?” the manager asked, leaning forward, bracing his hands on the armrests.

  “No threat,” I said. “A fact. But I will tell you that I will always be here when you schedule me. On time. And I’ll do a hell of a lot better job than anyone else. If that is not good enough, don’t know what more I can do.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Like I said, I can cover you this time.”

  “Should I be looking for another job?” I asked, sitting bolt upright, my eyes still on his, deadpan.

  He looked away. “I can’t guarantee I can give you off every request.”

  “In that case,” I said, “I can guarantee I won’t be here.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Lose that attitude, Scott. Now.”

  “No,” I said. “That was my last shift.”

  “What?”

  “Like I said, I no longer work here.” I pick up the pile of cash, and continue counting. Without another word, I give him the cash I owe, the credit card receipts, and the bank. He silently runs the numbers on a calculator, counts the cash, and gives me a stiff nod when he finishes.

  I left the office and marched directly for the door, ignoring everything and everyone here. My skin tingled with the same sense of sure success I’d felt at Soundworks.

  This is my next step.

  In the loft, when the four of them start back to the front, I pull Jonathan aside with a jerk of my head.

  “We’ve a situation,” I say. “Follow me.”

  I sit on my mattress.

  “Do you guys need anyone at Le Moloko?” I ask Jonathan, kicking off my shoes, my voice as quiet and calm as I feel.

  “Why?”

  “I quit.”

  “What?”

  “Manager forced my hand.” I start pulling off my white work shirt, which is flecked with small stains and reeks of restaurant. “Said he can’t give me time off for gigs. That this was the last time.” I unfasten my pants. “Complete bullshit,” I say, pulling them off and tossing them into the pile with my shirt.

  “No shit,” he says, running his fingers through his hair, and scooping it away from his face. “Don’t know. I’ll have to ask.”

  “As much as it pisses me off to lose the money from there,” I say, “nothing’s going to get in the way of Mercurial Visions.”

  “Sure, right.”

  “Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent,” I say, mostly to myself. Sammy would’ve approved.

  He curls a lock of his hair around his fingers, nodding.

  “You take care of those that take care of you.” I grab the top pair of jeans from a neatly folded pile and step into them. “Total bullshit.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Only took me a week to get this job. Even if it takes me that long again, I’ll get some work done around here. Drop our demo off at some more bars. Maybe even Wax Trax! Something.” I shove my arms into a striped shirt. “Hell. It’ll probably work out better this way. So thank you, asshole.” I throw my hand up in the direction of where I used to work.

  “Just so you know, I’ve got around a hundred ’n’ fifty bucks.”

  “I’ve eighty-five. Don’t worry about it. Waiting jobs are a dime a dozen. Won’t take more than a few days. It was worse in Columbus.”

  Chapter 32

  Roommates

  —Scott—

  Slumping into the couch, I stare across the gaping emptiness of the loft, listening to the two of them showering together.

  Six weeks have passed since I quit. No job yet.

  September’s rent was due nine days ago. We have less than half of it.

  Randal said he can cover for a few weeks. That means back rent will pile up as long as I’m bringing nothing in. Even Randal can only go so far.

  “They own this building to make money, after all. And Tanya isn’t here anymore.” He’s reminded us of this more than once.

  Last week I even called the Tenants Union to see if they could help. They told me that since we’re living semilegally in a commercial building, there’s nothing we could do but “hope you won’t get evicted.”

  Then we’ve still got the bills from Con Ed, Ameritech, and Keyspan. There’s nothing to hope for from them. They’ll simply cut off the electric, phone, and gas.

  We can’t go begging Nancy. We’ve already mooched off her for the recording and mix, and the way things look, we’ll have to hit her up for the cost to press the CDs. She even asked us to sign a letter of intent stating that her money is a loan and that she will be preferred when—if—we start making any money.

  I get it girl. It’s business.

  But even food is pinched thin now. We’ve gotten to the point of eating only what Jonathan can snag from his restaurant, a rare two-dollar Maxwell Street Polish from Friar’s Grill, and whatever we can find in the discount bins at Jewel—mostly packages of broken ramen noodles and dented cans of vegetables and Chef Boyardee.

  That and Jennifer’s charity dinners out—like tonight.

  I scoff at my life. I hate that I still have no job. Stupid.

  I feel like breaking something. Instead I get on the floor and crank out a hundred furious push-ups. I’m about to start a hundred more when Jennifer steps out of the bathroom, a faded red towel wrapped around her slender waist. By their mattress near the back of the loft in the twilight, she pulls a pair of black tights from one of the cinder-block-and-board shelves they share. She lets the towel fall away.

  I look away.

  Her. Feeding us. Poisonous.

  Finished dressing, she strolls over.

  “So,” she says, “where do you want to go?”

  “Up to you. You’re the one with the money.”

  “Someplace close? I’ve a shoot to be at later tonight.”

  “Sure.”

  “Busy Bee?”

  “Why not,” I say.

  “It’ll work out. I’ve confidence in you guys.”

  “Yeah.” Think you have to tell me what I already know? That I need a cheerleader? I rattle my tongue back and forth between my teeth, holding back.

  “So,” Jonathan says, appearing from the bathroom and walking over, a towel wrapped around his waist like a skirt, his long hair matted to his head and neck. “What’re we doing?”

  “Busy Bee,” she says, laying her head on his shoulder.

  “Pierogis and kielbasa. Perfect,” he says, stroking her hair tenderly.

  Poisonous.

  While he finishes dressing, I stare out at Chicago, trying not to think about how sour things have turned with Nancy subsidizing our CD. Jennifer feeding us. All because that asshole wouldn’t give me the few days off I needed. Long way to the top. I snort in disgust. Fucked up.

  Elbows locked, Jennifer and Jonathan meet me at the door.

  “So,” he says, “nice, hearty, peasant food.”

  With that I open the door and we climb down the stairs.

  On North Ave, passing under the ‘L’ tracks, we turn right, go by the entrance to the North Avenue ‘L’ station, and open the door to the Busy Bee. We take a table in the back room.

  As we eat, I avoid watching them brush fingers, nudge shoulders, and shoot each other sly, knowing looks. Her especially. It’s as if she’s baiting me. As she does every night, forcing me to listen to their
bodies rubbing against each other, their grunts and moans growing louder and louder. Sometimes they go at it in the afternoons too—a few yards away, covered only by sheets, as I’m practicing my guitar.

  Is she teasing me? Tricking me into imagining what she’s doing to him?

  That feeling of almost remembering something unforgivable bubbles up inside again, making the room feel too small. I look away and hold the table edge so tightly my knuckles turn white, and the hideous feeling lets up, and I can breathe normally. Afterward, I direct my full attention to each bite I take, ignoring everything else.

  When we finish and she stands to take the bill up to the cashier, I resent her.

  “Thank you,” I say, unable to meet her eyes.

  Once she leaves for the shoot she’s working on, Jonathan and I walk to the loft in silence. I can tell he wants to say something but is holding back. I can see it in his tight lips and how he avoids looking at me even as we climb the stairs and step into the loft.

  I lie down on the couch and close my eyes, trying not to think about breakfast and whatever it was I could nearly remember.

  He starts playing an almost familiar melody.

  I try to place it, but recognition slips away as soon as I think I know it.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he says.

  “About?”

  “We need about fifteen hundred in less than three weeks.”

  “I know,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’ve been out looking for a job every day. There isn’t shit right now. Slays me. People’re always hiring. Except now.”

  “Yep. I see you trying,” he says. “And you shouldn’t take a crappy one just to have some money that won’t ever be enough. Maybe we’d make rent, but then, you’d have to quit again.”

  “And?” I ask, not in the mood for guessing games.

  “I was just thinking that Jennifer basically lives here—”

  “Stop,” I say, sitting up. “No. Just no.”

  “Why not?” he asks, continuing to play that almost-familiar melody.

  “Because this is our space. Our work. Our band. Ours. Yours and mine.”

  “Which we’re going to lose soon.”

  “I’ll borrow the money. I’ve already thought about that.”

  “From whom? Everyone around here’s broke. Randal’s not, but he’s already covering our asses. Or are you planning on mortgaging the band to Nancy?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I know that. We already owe her too much. But Jennifer paying rent here? Being an equal? No. Not acceptable. That’s inviting the devil in.”

  “The devil? That’s my lover you’re talking about.”

  “I’m trying to protect you,” I say.

  “Protect me? From what? Her?”

  Yes.

  “Like from Amy?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Exactly.”

  “Amy saved my life, man. You have no idea.”

  I don’t want you to die. Almost remembering something unforgivable surges up again. Standing, I shake my head as the walls start pushing in on me.

  “No. Forget it,” I say. I start pacing in a small circle to keep from remembering. “Didn’t mean that. Came out. Not happy about the way things are happening is all.”

  “Look at it this way. She can, for all intents and purposes, live here. For free. Or,” Jonathan says, abruptly stopping the melody. “We can give her the keys and she can start paying some rent.”

  “That,” I say, slashing my hands down, “makes all the difference in the world. She’s not our roommate now. And I won’t have her deciding what we do with our place. Period.”

  “She won’t. She loves the plans we have. She told me she wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “What!” I yell. “You’ve already told her she could move in?”

  “No,” he says calmly, picking up that almost familiar melody as if it had been hanging in the air, waiting for this moment. “I’ve told her about our plans. She thinks they’re great. Loves them. That’s it. Sure, yes, we’ve talked about living together. Someday. In the future. I have not invited her to move in here. Wouldn’t. Not without talking to you first. Which I’m doing right now. Which I also think is a very good idea right now. She starts letting herself in. We end up having more money to pay our grand a month in rent. And we can stop having to mooch off Nancy to get the remix done. Another fifteen hundred we don’t have to pay her back for. Plus we need to get discs pressed, and sent out. Hundreds there. Shit, we might even be able to afford noodles that aren’t broken into little bits.”

  “This is,” I say, shaking my head, “the wrong way.”

  “Quite frankly, she’s going to be basically living here anyway. Right now she feels out of place. Like a guest who’s overstayed her welcome. She’s my lover. I’m not suggesting she sign the lease. Keys for cash. A lot simpler. A hell of a lot better. For everybody.”

  “I don’t,” I say, and then drum my fingers on the armrest. The fabric makes more dust than sound. “Know.”

  “We’ve talked about live-in lovers before. In Columbus,” he says. “Like we agreed then. She won’t be on the lease. If it doesn’t work, she’s gone. Conversation over.”

  How did we get here? This is worse than with Amy.

  “We knew it was going to happen. Only now we need the money.”

  This is punishment. For what, I don’t remember.

  “It’s helpful. For all of us.”

  I sigh. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yes would be good.”

  I look around at all the equipment, everything we’ve built. Everything we are building.

  The black widow moves in. So take the money, Scott. Then get her gone. While you have time to stop her.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  I shake my head, waving a finger at him.

  “Truth is, Scott”—he strikes a dramatic chord on the keyboard—“she already lives here.”

  A sense that I’m about to make a horrendous mistake wells up and grows so strong. I grab my head.

  “This was going to happen sooner or later.” He plays a soothing melody. “And sooner happens to be better.”

  “This place,” I say, examining my palms, “is still ours.” Dropping my hands, I drill him with my eyes. “Yours and mine. Not yours, mine, and hers.” I shake my head gravely. “I won’t allow that to change.”

  “I don’t want that to change either. I won’t let that happen.”

  “Comes down to her or me. Her or the band.” I hold his eyes with my stare. “She goes.”

  “Always.” He crashes out a heavy final note, letting it hang in the air.

  Chapter 33

  The Weight of Survival

  —Scott—

  Worse than Jennifer getting her own keys and officially moving in is that it has taken me nearly a month to find a job, so she has had to pay my part of the rent. Twice.

  I’ve picked up whatever extra shifts I can to pay her back for September and October, while saving up for November.

  There’s no chance I’m going to keep owing her money. While living on her charity, I can’t say a word about what a slob she is or how she’s always inviting friends over to hang out while I’m busting ass to get the band up and running. Between her friends and Ron’s photo shoots and rehearsals, I’ve hardly been able to find any time to be alone and think.

  One night it started shaping up that I might have some time alone. Lynda had landed the lead in a low-budget indie film and was in California for who knows how long. After wrapping up rehearsal earlier, everyone took off, including the roommates.

  The last to leave, Kenny invited me to meet some friends out at Holiday. It sounded like a pack of students from Columbia College. I supposed they were mostly those half-queer artistes he brings by rehearsal on occasio
n. This made me wonder again if he actually likes boys or is dabbling in being bi. Being bi is so trendy in those artsy crowds—as if an artist isn’t real if he isn’t queer or at least swings both ways—as if a straight artist is either too closeted or has no struggle inside worth expressing. Either way, the idea is that breeders can’t create real art. Can’t perform either. I’ve heard that crap too many times.

  Such horseshit. If you’re queer, you’re queer. It’s not an affectation. A badge. A magic hat to wear in order to create.

  I’ll hate him if he turns out to be one of these artfags.

  So I told him I was too tired and finally got my time alone.

  Tonight I’m feeling revived riding the North Avenue bus home. After two and a half weeks of working every shift I could, I’ve earned a decent chunk of the money I owe Jennifer. As the bus approaches my stop, Book of Love’s new single “Pretty Boys and Pretty Girls” is still running through my mind: “Sex is dangerous,” she sings. “I don’t take my chances.”

  “Well, neither do I,” I whisper, stepping off the bus near the loft and heading straight to the bodega on the corner of Damen Avenue for a little reward. I push open the door with cutout letters reading “Happy Halloween” taped above a witch and worm my way around the center aisle of the cramped little store. I hold my bag in front of me to avoid knocking some little box or bottle from the jam-packed shelves. Finally reaching the bulletproof Plexiglas fortress behind which all the booze is secured and the cashier hides, I ask for a bottle of Absolut. The somber, dull-eyed man turns silently, pulls the clear, bullet-shaped bottle off the shelf, and sets it on the counter on his side of the clear wall. Only after I push the cash into the deep, curved slot under the Plexiglas does the man put the bottle, and then my change, into the revolving cylinder, finally turning the opening toward me.

  Putting the bottle in my bag and slipping its strap over my shoulder, I feel the weight of survival.

  This’ll be a nice anecdote for an interview, showing how far we’d fallen and how we had the perseverance to claw our way back up. The straight boy fighting. The straight boy winning.

  Guiding the bag back out the tight aisle, I leave, my head high. Fighting. Tooth and nail. Every step of the way.