A Perfect Blindness

by W. Lance Hunt

  Walking to the loft, money in my pocket, I let myself resume plotting the work we’ve still got ahead of us.

  First, we need to wrap up our demo mix. Second, there’s pressing as many CDs as we can afford on a single run. Third, we have to get those CDs to radio and club DJs. Especially the one Kenny knows at the station out of Northwestern, WNUR. Fourth are the labels. Fifth, with all that exposure, we need to start selling the CD at all the independent record stores like Reckless Records and Wax Trax! Eventually getting it into stores in Milwaukee, Gary, West Bend, and even Columbus. Sixth, with that money, we’ll be able to afford more and sell them at shows. Those profits are all ours. Seventh, we need that backdrop for the stage Chris designed—a large black sheet displaying a man’s torso in silver, arms raised, reaching beyond the edge, like an overexposed black-and-white negative. Eventually we can put it on T-shirts and sell them at shows. Even put it on posters or wall hangings.

  Climbing the four flights of stairs, I hear music dribbling down the stairwell, which means the roommates are here. Opening the steel-strapped door, I see instead Jennifer and her boss Wendy sitting on the couch with only the front bank of lights on.

  “Where’s Jonathan?” I ask on my way to the kitchen table.

  “Has to close tonight,” Jennifer says. “Someone called in sick.”

  Grunting in acknowledgment, I take the bottle of vodka out of my bag and place it in the center of the table.

  Nice to see it here.

  I can’t stand being in my uniform, so I head to my mattress in the darkness at the far corner of the loft. There I pull the wad of cash from my pocket and unfold it atop my mattress. I lift an edge of the mattress and retrieve a thick envelope from under it. From that I take out a stack of bills and count out $240, all in twenties, adding five more twenties from what I earned tonight. Then I fold the top flap under the bottom and give it a satisfied pat.

  That done, I start stripping. After pulling on jeans and a shirt, I slip the envelope into my back pocket and then return to the light.

  “So,” I say, “who wants a celebratory cocktail?”

  “Celebrating what?” Jennifer asks.

  “Surviving. Life knocked us down. And we picked ourselves back up. Now, we can raise a drink to that.” Turning over three highball glasses on the table, I ask, “Who’s having what?”

  “What’s to have?” Wendy asks, slicking back a stray lock of her dark hair.

  “We have vodka and whatever’s in the fridge. Diet Coke. Juice, I think. Ice, of course. I have mine on the rocks. No martinis. We never have vermouth.”

  “The same,” Wendy says.

  “Why not,” Jennifer says. “I’ll have mine with Diet Coke.”

  “One vodka, rocks, and one skinny black bitch it is,” I say, pouring our drinks.

  “Sorry,” I say, handing Wendy her glass. “No olives. No lemons to twist.”

  “What sort of bar is this?” she asks.

  “One that barely paid rent.” I hand my roommate her glass. “Speaking of which.” I take the envelope from my back pocket.

  “What I owe you for September’s rent,” I say, handing it to her. “October’s will come once I have enough for November’s. A couple of weeks.”

  “That’s not important,” she says, ignoring the envelope.

  “Yes it is,” I say, and then I shake it at her. “Take it.”

  “But—”

  “I pay my own way.”

  “It’s no big deal. Really …” she says, staring at the envelope. “You guys have to mix the songs—”

  “This is rent money. For the loft. It’s what I owe you. We’ll deal with money for the band. Jonathan and I.”

  She looks at her friend, who nods and mouths “yes.”

  Wendy gets that who pays for what does matter. A lot. It’s about ownership and say.

  Jennifer takes the money. “Thanks.”

  “Count them. There are seventeen twenties there.”

  “I trust—”

  “Don’t trust. Count.”

  Sighing, she counts out all seventeen bills.

  “Everything’s correct. We both see it. No doubts later,” I say, and then I pick up my glass. “To making it.”

  After we drink, I turn to sit with them, and they slide over to give me space on our only sofa.

  “Snug,” Wendy says.

  “We want to get another one. Or two,” Jennifer says. “Right now we need the money to mix our CD.”

  Our CD?

  “So,” Jennifer says, “he isn’t sure when we can.”

  “I,” I say, thumping my thumb on my chest, “want to mix our CD in two or three weeks. But until I see how much money I make these next couple of weeks, Jonathan and I can’t make that decision.”

  “We going back to Soundworks?”

  “Jonathan and I are, yes. Us. Alone.”

  “I don’t mind hanging out. Like before.”

  “To be frank,” I say, “I’m not worried about you. It’s Jonathan. Studio time is very expensive for us now. Ask Wendy. We’ll barely be able to afford the two hours we need. Can’t waste a minute. He cannot be distracted.”

  Wariness bunches up Jennifer’s brow.

  “Thinks you’ll distract him,” Wendy says flatly.

  I nod.

  “He can’t even think about you. He has to be there, concentrating one hundred percent. There must be music and nothing else. At all. I need him like that. We all”—I include Jennifer, Wendy, and myself in a large circle I draw with my finger—“need him like that.”

  Giving an annoyed pout, she looks into her glass.

  “You want it to be the best it can be, right?” I ask.

  “Yes, Scott,” she says, lighting a cigarette. “Of course I do.”

  “It’s not you. Not even Nancy and AnnMarie—band members—are coming. They laid the tracks. But too many people making too many suggestions.” I shake my head at the idea.

  “Yeah.” She exhales a cloud of smoke, and I have to sit back to avoid it billowing into my face.

  “You don’t let boyfriends or girlfriends on a shoot, or backstage at a runway show, right?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “I wouldn’t. Just thought I could …”

  “Could what? How many of your girls think that they would suddenly start calling the shots, directing people around their glamorous life, just because they get a headshot and go on a couple of comp shoots?”

  She nods. “No kidding.”

  “They’re surprised that their so-called dreams don’t simply happen. They get bent.”

  Wendy smiles wryly.

  “‘Aren’t we trying to live our dreams?’ All resentful. ‘Don’t we believe in ourselves?’ Have hope. Aren’t we trying like the Little Engine That Could?”

  “Been eavesdropping backstage?” Wendy asks.

  “Don’t need to go backstage,” I say, “I hear it all the time in restaurants. I have to walk away before I say anything. Those aren’t dreams. Those are fantasies.”

  “That’s what we traffic in,” Wendy says. “All sorts of illusions.”

  “They suffer from still believing in that feel-good-about-yourself faith parents and marketers sell to us kids growing up,” I say. “But the ant never moved that rubber tree plant. A bird ate him. Takes more than high hopes. It takes work and more work, and sacrifice, and single-minded determination. Nothing can get in your way. Nothing.”

  Silently, Wendy nods, a knowing expression on her face

  “Jonathan’s gotta concentrate. One hundred percent. Worrying about you being bored, or what your opinion is, or whatever. They’re distractions, so he can’t be his best. That’s a problem.” I nod. “For all of us. Including you.” Between me and her, I make a small circle with two fingers. “You live here now. The band’s gotta start maki
ng money. That’s the whole point of what we’re doing.”

  “I get it,” Jennifer says. “You’re right. I won’t go.”

  “We’re only going to be gone a couple of hours. You’ll be the first person to hear how it goes.”

  She takes a drink.

  “Oh, and this should interest you, Wendy. Ron’s shooting here that night. Some of that new talent you sent him. Why don’t you do some comps, Jennifer? You’ll be here anyway.”

  Jennifer makes a sour face.

  “Sure,” Wendy says. “You’ll be right here. Your own house.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ll have fun. I know you will. I did. Getting all glammed up like those chicks you send out on thousand-dollar-a-day jobs.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Yes, you do. Really. You do.”

  “But it’s just me.”

  “It’s just them too. Charlene was who she was, no matter what she looked like on film.”

  • • • • •

  The next afternoon, I stuff a vinegar fry into my mouth. It’s been months since we’ve had the money to get carryout from the Northside back at the loft, and I’m enjoying the hell out of this. Jonathan’s eating but brooding. Right before we mix the four songs.

  “Jennifer said she didn’t want to come along tonight,” Jonathan finally says.

  “Oh?” I ask before swallowing.

  “Said she decided it would be better if she didn’t tag along. Wouldn’t talk about it. I’m thinking maybe you told her she couldn’t go.”

  A fry burns the roof of my mouth. I take a big, cold gulp of beer. “Nope. We talked about the session, yes. But I did not tell her not to go. Ask Wendy. She was sitting right there.”

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  “Well,”—I blow on a fry—“why Nancy and AnnMarie weren’t going.”

  “She asked?”

  “Yeah.”

  “About Nancy and AnnMarie?”

  “It came up.”

  “Just happened to come up,” he says, pursing his lips, his fingers ticking back and forth quickly twice.

  “Basically, yes.”

  Looking down, he shakes his head.

  I sigh. Laying my hands flat on the table beside my food, I start an explanation I shouldn’t have to make at all. “I get home last night. She’s here with Wendy. I’ve finally got the money to pay her back for September. So I suggest drinks.”

  “What’s this to do with—”

  “Hold on,” I say, my finger held up at his face. “It does. If you’ll let me.”

  His brow furrows.

  “So after we toast, Wendy brings up the mix. Something we can now do, since I have money.” I sweep the palm of my hand before him. See, the cocktails. “Jennifer talks about how we’re going to Soundworks, and how we need money to press copies of it. Fine. She was there last time, right? Then Wendy points out that Ron will be shooting here tonight. That he’s doing comps for some new talent, that it’s in Jennifer’s house, that it would be a great way for her to get her own comps, et cetera. She’s not sure. We’re mixing at the same time. That is when I tell her that it won’t be a problem. That Nancy and AnnMarie aren’t going. That fewer people turns out being better.”

  He grunts.

  “Really. Think about it. She’ll have to sit around doing nothing for two hours. Not exactly what I call a good time.”

  “I want her opinions.”

  “Her opinions?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “If she likes this, or doesn’t like that, and why.”

  “She’s not creating our sound.” I shake my head. “No.”

  “That’s not what I meant. But she’s the type of person who’d buy it, so …”

  “So nothing. A camel is a horse designed by a committee,” I say. “Anyone more than you, me, and the sound man is a committee.”

  “But she might have good ideas.”

  “Are we gonna run a focus group to figure out what sounds best? Jonathan, this sound is ninety percent you. What’s going on in your head. Me, the girls? We take those ideas and fill them out. You and only you know what it sounds like in your head. Not me. Not Nancy. Not AnnMarie. And certainly not Jennifer.”

  He makes a sour face.

  “What if she makes a suggestion and you don’t like it? So you say no. Is your mind going to be on the music or on her hurt feelings?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “It’s happening right now. We’re not even mixing.”

  “Whatever,” he says in that deadpan way of his that means he won’t talk about it anymore.

  “You want those?” I point at his fries.

  He pushes the aluminum container at me.

  “She’ll do her comps. Ron’s shooting a couple of other chicks while we’re mixing.” I snag a fry. “That will give her something to do. Not only tonight but maybe in the future as well. The main point is that she decided, herself, on her own, not to come.”

  He grunts.

  Chapter 34

  Laughing Like Children

  —Scott—

  A month after we finish the mix of our debut four-song EP, we’ve scrounged the money to get 250 CDs pressed without having to sponge from Nancy. It’s stripped to the bare minimum: only a jewel case, a CD with a simple black-and-white label Chris designed, and an all-text back cover bearing the track listing:

  1.The Ritual

  2.Amy’s Face

  3.Just Walk Away

  4.Sin with Me

  Kenny took a copy to a radio DJ friend of his, who liked it and said he was going to play it. Tonight. Nothing we’ve done has ever gotten airplay in a major market—not even on a college station, where Kenny’s DJ friend works: WNUR.

  We’re all here in the loft, waiting to hear it: Mercurial Visions, lovers, and friends. I’m sitting on the floor, my back against a column. AnnMarie’s with Jennifer and Nancy on the couch. Kenny’s getting a cocktail. Ron has his camera ready to catch our expressions. Everyone is here except for Jonathan. He has to work and will probably miss the first time a song of ours ever gets real airplay.

  We’ve been listening for our song to come on the radio for about two hours when the door opens, letting in a gust of cold, wet, late-November air.

  “The door,” I yell, curling up. “Close.”

  “Not much of a party,” Randal says, sauntering over.

  “Waiting to hear it, man,” I say.

  “Ah, explains the lecture hall feel. Have a notepad for me?”

  “L21ST” by Cabaret Voltaire wraps up, and everyone gets quiet, leaning a bit closer to the speakers.

  Let’s hear it. Come on.

  “And now,” the DJ says, “a new single, right here from Chicago. Off the new EP single Some Have to Dance, Some Have to Kill, here is ‘The Devil Does Drugs’ by My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult.”

  “Crap,” I say. “You think he’ll keep his promise, Kenny?”

  “I guess.” He shrugs. “He should. I don’t know him that well.”

  Great.

  Something hammers the door, and then it pushes open. Another gust of cold, wet air bursts in.

  “Have they played it yet?” Jonathan asks, jumping through the doorway.

  “Close the door!”

  “Well, has he?” he asks, pushing the door closed with his shoulder.

  “No,” AnnMarie says.

  “So I didn’t miss it,” Jonathan says, tossing his bag next to the door. “Awesome.”

  “He’s got an hour left,” Kenny calls over to him.

  Jonathan gets a drink while a safe-sex public service announcement plays. It ends.

  We hush, listening for the next song …

  “Love Will Tear Us Apart” begins.

 
; “Shit,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah,” Jonathan says. “Love that song. Last time I was over at Reckless Records, I saw the concert poster of ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart.’ Huge. Three by five foot. Awesome.”

  Oh, please. Not this again.

  “The first money I actually make from this band, that’s where it’s going,” he says, pointing to a large blank space on the wall near the black doors of the elevator. “Dry mount it. Bam. Right there.”

  “Your way of telling Jennifer something?” I ask.

  “No. A Reminder,” he says, reaching down to lay his hand on Jennifer’s shoulder.

  “Of what?” Jennifer asks.

  “What makes it worth it. Makes it worth singing about.”

  “Being torn apart,” she says, “makes us worth it?”

  “You’re being too literal.”

  “What do you mean ‘literal’?” she asks, slumping back into the couch, looking annoyed.

  Good. Tear them apart.

  “Meaning love is rupture. It tears you from your before life. Remakes you time and again.”

  She grunts and pulls away from his hand.

  “That makes for great lyrics,” he says.

  She looks askance at him. “What? We’re a song?”

  He shakes his head. “Still, too literal. I’m talking the drama of falling in love. Out of love. Being in love. That drama makes for good lyrics.”

  “So I really am a song to you.”

  He purses his lips, and cracks his knuckles, raising a hand, pointing, as if he’s about to start a lecture. Yet he stays silent.

  They look at each other.

  “Well,” I say. “Is she only a song?”

  Thrusting an open palm at me, he gives me a what-the-fuck look.

  “No,” he says. “She is not. But there is drama in all relationships, ours included. And that drama can be a song: the before versus the together; the expectations, both met and not; the always choosing to be with her every day, every hour, and every moment, all while knowing she can change her mind like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Or you might change your mind and not even know why. Drama. Especially when you don’t like each other for a moment. After you’ve both changed. It’s dramatic, ’cause the stakes couldn’t be higher.”