“So don’t take the risks,” Nancy says. “Just have sex. Simple, clean, and with only the passion you care to give. Or not. It’s only sex. Hell, you can even make money at it.”
“No drama there,” he says. “No risk. Well, there’s time, disappointment, embarrassment, maybe a nasty case of something. Ack, these sound like lyrics for a ditty in a safe sex PSA.”
“So,” I say. “Amy was only for the drama—not the sex?”
He gives me an ugly stare, flaring his nostrils.
I’m saving your life here, moron.
“Neither one,” Jonathan says. “You never got that.”
“Oh?” I ask. “So what don’t I get about Amy?”
“Nothing to get anymore.” He lights a cigarette. “No point in explaining what’s gone.”
“I see,” I say, nodding gravely.
Jonathan offers his cigarette to Jennifer.
She waves it off and then lights one up for herself.
Good job, girl.
“So basically,” I say, “you’re saying drama’s the reason to have a lover. It’s not that you love her. You love the drama of loving her.”
Jonathan shakes his head violently, his hair flying around.
“I don’t think that’s what he’s saying,” Nancy says. “Not really. He’s only saying one must write about the unique drama of a particular relationship. That’s what makes it interesting. See, poets have been trying to put into words what it feels like to be in love for millennia. They think the particular way they feel love is unique, and so special that the world needs to understand. Yet read enough love poems and they all start to sound the same.”
“Sort of,” Jonathan says.
“Poetry,” I scoff. “Like Romeo and Juliet killing themselves. Madame Butterfly. Emma Bovary. Anna Karenina. All end the same way.”
“Exactly, the drama,” Jonathan says. “Not the naked emotion, spread on an examining table. That’s the same old song.”
“Every one of those is a suicide,” Nancy said.
“Proof. Love’s dangerous,” I say. “It kills. Don’t get suckered by it.”
“The real swindle,” Jonathan says, “is believing you’re above it all. Sneering at all the grinning dupes, proud of being miserable all of the time. But the people who grin are happy—at least some of the time.”
“And end up dead,” I say.
“Or feel like you want to die,” he says. “But I get to smile.”
“In other words,” Nancy says, “it’s better to love and win glorious feelings, though checkered by pain, than take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither love nor loss. With apologies to Teddy.”
“Dead’s worse.”
“Emotionally dead?” he asks. “Sure. That is worse.”
“Scott,” Nancy says, “I’ve gotta agree with him. There’s magic to it. But magic comes with risk. Danger. Highs and lows. Take Ron here. You’ve seen how many naked women through that camera of yours? Does it thrill you like it did when you were fifteen?”
“Not hardly,” Ron says. “It’s still sweet looking at naked girls. But it’s nothing like the first Playboy. Or that sophomore in high school, Laura. First real tits I ever saw. Nothing’s like that now. Course, how could I get a shoot done if I were gaping at a chick’s tits like a fifteen-year-old the whole time?”
“Can’t fall under the spell anymore,” Nancy says. “Too bad.”
“Not everyone wants to fall under the spell,” AnnMarie says. “And not because you see naked ass all the time. It can be because you’re not interested.”
“Then you don’t have to worry about getting hurt,” I say.
“You can go through the motions, not caring or even understanding why anyone cares,” AnnMarie says, “and still get wounded.”
“Like in some sad European movie?” I ask. “Where the heroine sacrifices her virtue to the evil count to save her true love? Or the family castle?”
“No,” AnnMarie says. “Like getting pregnant the only time you’ve ever had sex because that’s what your boyfriend wanted, even if you didn’t understand why he wanted it. Because you gave up the child for adoption. Because the child gets killed in a parking lot, shopping for his fake mom’s birthday when he runs out in front of a car. I mean hurt like that.”
“You’re a mother?”
“Was,” AnnMarie says. “Malcolm’s dead.”
“Guys,” Kenny calls out, leaning toward a speaker. “You’re on.”
All heads turn to the speakers: our music flows out.
Now it feels as if millions of ants are crawling over my skin. I feel I’m exactly where I must be at exactly this moment and that I will be rewarded for all my persistence and determination.
Destiny. Jonathan, you must feel the same way I do. Please. Sammy did.
“That was ‘Just Walk Away,’” the DJ says, “by Chicago’s own Mercurial Visions. Wicked new sound, right? Let me know what you think by calling the listener line. And if you want to check out the rest of their music, they’ll be at Avalon December second, the Friday after next, at eleven. Belmont and Sheffield. Be there to support noncorporate music. You know I’ll be there. And now—”
I pump my fist. “Hell yeah!”
The photographer shoots and shoots, the no-longer mom claps, the lovers kiss, the groupie-roadie whoops, the landlord shoves hands forward, thumbs up, and the sequencer queen grabs my hands and pulls me up. We start dancing. Everyone joins in. We whirl around until we’re dizzy and laughing like children.
Chapter 35
Joie de Vivre
—Scott—
Feeling Lynda trace slow, curving lines across my back, I lie on my side, away from the light seeping through the drapes in her bedroom.
I need to leave. Shoulda known better than to have come here last night.
After our show at Avalon two weeks back, this guy came up onstage. He was dressed too well for our normal crowd, in a skinny suit, no tie, like some New York or London hipster, and started talking to Jonathan. Fans always want to talk to the singer.
Now, we didn’t have much time to clear the stage for the next act, but I let that go at first and started packing up.
But you keep talking, which is annoying, ‘cause that means I’ll have to pack your crap as well. Or drag you from your adoring fan. I’m not your personal roadie over here.
AnnMarie and Nancy were almost done, and I’d started on his gear, when Jonathan yanked on my shoulder from behind.
“Scott,” he said. “This is Vic. He’s from Wax Trax! Ministry and RevCo’s label.” Jonathan nodded his head with this “uh-huh, exactly” expression.
I extended my hand. We shook.
“The new songs are great,” Vic said. “I’ve been following you for a while. Caught ‘Just Walk Away’ on NUR a couple of weeks ago. Had to come out and give the rest of your stuff a listen.”
Okay …?
“I’d like to talk about what Wax Trax! can do for you.”
Shit!
“Now, I’m heading to London for a few days, so here,” he said, handing me his business card. It had “Artists and Repertoire” below his name.
“When I get back into town in a couple of weeks, let’s meet. Talk business.”
After all these years.
This morning is that couple of weeks later, and today we’re meeting him—in less than three hours.
So why the hell am I lying around in bed with Lynda? To prove I like girls? Everyone knows, Scott, so get your stupid ass out of bed.
“What ’cha thinking about?” Lynda asks.
“Nothing. Band business. Have to be taking off.”
“Why?” she asks, wrapping an arm around my waist. “We never spend a lazy morning together.”
&nb
sp; “Today isn’t the day to start.”
She smacks my ass, leaving a pleasant sting.
“Get me my cigarettes?” she asks.
I reach over to the nightstand, grab the pack and lighter, and hand them to her over my back.
“Let’s have sex all day,” she says. “Forget everything else.”
“Love to,” I say. “Not today though.”
“You don’t really have to go,” she says, sliding her hand down my belly, pushing her fingers through my pubic hair.
“Yes, actually. I do.” I remember Russ Meyer: “An orgasm is fifteen seconds. A movie is forever.” Like our music.
“Be late.” She wraps her fingers, loosely, around my growing erection.
“No, I can’t,” I say, grasping her hand.
“You don’t have to leave right this second.” She rubs her leg over mine.
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “Right this second.” I pull her hand away from me and then give my erection a sharp crack with my fingernail.
I stand and pick up my clothes.
“I’m going to be busy the next few days,” she says.
“Too bad,” I say, not caring that much: I have Wax Trax! waiting for me.
I lean down to kiss her anyway as she lies tossed across the bed.
As I step into the dreary late morning, a clammy wind blows on my face. I shiver and turn my collar up. It’s usually a ten-minute walk, but I start speed walking, wondering if Jonathan’s gotten ready or is at least out of bed. I don’t want to have to roust him from our roommate’s arms.
Not on the morning of the most important meeting of our life.
Nearing the Northside Bar & Grill, I can see the first floor of the Coyote Building—a long, narrow triangle with floor-to-ceiling windows. It was probably a prime space once, but now it’s decrepit, with wires and long strips of paint dangling from the high ceiling. Dust covers the floor and counters like gray frost. But with the number of new restaurants, coffee shops, and galleries opening around here, I imagine it’ll get rehabbed soon, like the rest of the ’hood. Once we sign this deal, maybe we should take it over and use it to sell Mercurial Visions paraphernalia: T-shirts, CDs, posters, and even custom gear. We could make it look sweet.
Make cash when we’re not performing.
Turning down an alley parallel to North Avenue, I cut through the parking lot next to the Northside and arrive at our building.
As I open the door, I unexpectedly hear the sound of Jonathan’s keyboard playing a song I don’t recognize.
Climbing up, I keep listening, yet still it escapes me.
Is Kenny rehearsing something? Without telling me?
As I round the second-floor landing, I hear Jonathan singing.
I take each step softly so I can listen. At the fourth floor, I stand, my ear to the steel door. The song is completely new: not only passionate and sensual but upbeat as well.
When the song fades to silence, I unlock the door and walk in.
In a long, baggy black shirt, Jennifer sits on the floor next to a small cassette recorder, a mic in hand. Jonathan waves me over.
“Jen,” he says. “Rewind it. Play it for him.”
“I heard it. I was at the door listening.”
“Well?” he asks, standing up behind the keyboard, spreading his arms. He’s naked but for boxers.
“Impressive. I—”
“No,” he says. “This … no. This is the best I’ve ever written. This,” he says, walking around the keyboard to tap his finger on the recorder. “This is what we should be taking to the meeting. Fuck. I wish we had a four-track. I’d call the other two. We’d lay it all down right now. I’ve got it all. Here.” He taps his forehead. “Goddamn, why didn’t we buy that four-track from whatever his name was when we had the chance? Shit.”
“Relax, man,” I tell him.
He spins on a heel. “Is it rewound yet?”
“Yes,” she says, pushing a button.
“Listen,” he says. “Listen. I want to bring this today. Hold on. Hold on. Okay … here.” He drops to his knees, pointing the speaker toward me, slapping out a rhythm on the bare flesh of his thigh.
I can hear it all, exactly how the song will unfold, and hate that we don’t have it for the meeting. It breaks completely with who we were before Chicago and pushes deeply into the sound we’ve been moving toward. With work, it will make “Just Walk Away” sound like a B-side. Again I feel my skin prickle with the feeling of a million crawling ants—that rush like destiny.
“So?” he asks.
“That’s it,” I say. “That is it.”
“‘Joie de Vivre.’” He jumps up and spins, hair flaring outward. “Yes!” He drops to his knees and kisses Jennifer. “Play it again.” She starts rewinding the tape.
“Hold on,” I say. “We’ve only got, crap, less than an hour to make it to the meeting.”
“Change it. We only need a day to get this punched out.” He drums his thighs as “Joie de Vivre” starts again. “Or we’ll just bring this tape. I’ll explain everything.”
“Hang on, man,” I say, shaking my head. “The sound on that sucks. It’s completely unprofessional. And we’re pros. Not a bunch of high school dropouts with a couple of guitars and a drum kit.”
“Listen to that,” he says. “Listen. This is it.”
“Yes, it is,” I say. “But … no.”
“We only need a day,” he says, staring wildly at me. “Two, tops.”
“We’re going with what we’ve got. This already is our chance. We’re taking it.”
“Goddamn it,” he says, pulling a fist up to his lips.
“They came to us. They want us, with what we have.”
“And I want to knock them on their asses. This will do it.”
“They already want us. We have nothing to prove. But canceling on an hour’s notice makes us look totally unreliable. Completely unprofessional. Even if they thought this would sell a million—”
“It will.”
“They’d never trust us. Chance gone. That’s not happening.”
He closes his eyes and tips his head back.
“I know,” I say. “Really. But remember: they came to us. They already want us. It’s a question of going in for the kill. In”—I look at my watch—“fifty-one minutes. Don’t worry. This song’ll get made. But we’re not going to half-ass it. We want it to be right. Professional. All the way.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says. “Probably right. But damn it …” He sweeps out his arms. “It’s so good. So much better.”
Jennifer stands and wraps herself around him. His hand makes long strokes up and down her back.
“Now,” I say, “we’ve really got to kick to get out of here. And we both look like shit.”
“Yeah. Looks like Lynda’s servicing you well,” Jonathan says.
She slaps him on the belly. “Servicing?”
“Well …”
She slaps his belly again. “Servicing? Is that right?”
Looking innocent, he reaches out to touch her face.
She steps back. “Go take your shower,” she says, walking back toward their mattress. “Just wait and see if you get service.”
“Jen,” he says, “I wasn’t talking about you.”
“You’ve got a meeting.” She crawls under the covers. “I think this station’s now self service.”
He starts walking back to the mattresses.
“We’ve gotta get going,” I say.
“You shower first. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
“You’re shitting me,” I say as he walks back to her, his hair lashing back and forth. “You’re doing this right now?”
In the bathroom, I rip back the shower curtain. “This, I cannot believe.” Turning on the water, I shake my hea
d. “If you’re not in here by the time I get out, I’m dragging your ass in here. I don’t care what you’re doing.”
I quickly shower and begin drying my hair.
He’s still not here.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I storm out of the bathroom, and then I see him atop her, his hips furiously pumping between her wide-spread knees.
“Jesus fucking-ass Christ,” I blurt, and I turn back to the bathroom. “I mean … what the fuck?”
Raking the brush through my hair, I glare into the mirror.
“Oh, that’s right. You can’t think. The scent of her pussy makes you an imbecile.” Rapping the brush on the metal counter, I take several deep breaths. “I’m going alone. At least I’ll be there. On time. I’ll tell them you’re sick … or something.”
Chapter 36
Not Even in the Movies
—Scott—
He saunters in naked and flushed from sex, still partially erect.
I stare at it for a moment and then look into the sink.
“Well, we’re back to full-service,” he says, sounding very pleased with himself.
“Simply unreal,” I say, lifting an arm to run my deodorant underneath.
“I just—”
“The most important meeting of our goddamned life is in less than a half hour, and you’re balling Jennifer. Please. Explain that to me.” I lift my other arm. “No, don’t. I’ll lose my mind.”
“Shower only takes three minutes. Nothing. We’re fine.”
“No, we’re not,” I say, setting the deodorant down. “She’s more important to you than we are.”
“We late?”
“You’re not getting this.”
“Are we late?”
“Jonathan,” I say, looking at his reflection in the mirror. “Just …” I don’t even know what to say. That I shouldn’t have to worry if you’re going to get off in time for us to meet our record label.
“What’s more important to you?” I ask. “Getting off or getting a contract? No, don’t answer,” I say, holding my palm out to stop his reply. “You just showed me.”
I walk away.
Twenty minutes later, Jennifer’s dropped us off at 2449 North Lincoln Avenue.
It doesn’t look like much: a two-story, white-and-lime-green storefront with a Wax Trax! record store on the street level. A big sign in the window reads “We Pay Cash for Your Vinyl.” I check the address again.
A Perfect Blindness Page 23