A Perfect Blindness

by W. Lance Hunt

  “Yep. This is where it should be,” I say. “So where do we go? Do we have to buy a record to get in?”

  “Over here,” Jonathan says, pointing to “2449” over a single glass door to the right of the record store.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  We walk up the narrow staircase to the second floor. It hardly seems like the center of industrial club music. It’s a walk-up apartment over a used record store.

  At the top of the stairs, we open the door.

  The room’s walls are covered with album, EP, and single covers; tour and album release posters; and lacquered and mounted records and CDs from everyone I can think of: Ministry, Revolting Cocks, Lard, Pailhead, Front 242, My Life with the Thrill Kill Cult, 1000 Homo DJ’s, KMFDM, PIG, Meat Beat Manifesto, Front Line Assembly, Young Gods, Coil, Chris and Cosey, In the Nursery, Controlled Bleeding, A Split Second, Luc Van Acker, Laibach, and the Genetic Terrorists. It’s a Goth-industrial temple.

  Finally.

  I catch myself staring. Stop that. They came to us. We have what they want. And they’ll have to pay for it.

  Jonathan’s gazing at the paraphernalia, so I approach the reception desk.

  From behind the large desk, a college kid with platinum-blond hair looks up. “Can I help you?”

  “Scott Marshall. From Mercurial Visions. We have a meet—”

  “Yes, a meeting with Doug and Vic,” he says. “Let me tell them you’re here.” He picks up the phone.

  Don’t go acting all tough and untouchable, so superior. You’re a fucking intern, working for nothing merely to get close to the bands on the wall. I am one of those bands.

  “They’re expecting you,” he says. “Go right on in.” He nods toward a door to the right of his desk.

  “Jonathan,” I say, “let’s go.”

  I pull him into the office. Here too the walls are covered with band posters, logos, and discs. It looks like a record company office should, except it’s small and was probably a dining room once.

  “Hello,” Vic, the A&R guy from Avalon, says, reaching out to shake my hand. He’s dressed in another European-cut suit without a tie.

  “This is Doug, the executive producer, owner, overseer of everything.” He indicates the man sitting behind a large desk covered with stacks of papers and files. “Doug, this is Scott Marshall.”

  The owner looks to be in his early fifties, but he’s trim, unlike most management types, and is not dressed in the corporate drag of khakis and button-down shirt, or sack suit. He looks more downtown hipster, in a bold-print shirt, with a shock of brown hair hanging over his forehead.

  The owner reaches his hand out, and we shake.

  It’s a good, firm shake, which I like.

  “He said you were a big guy,” the owner says. “He’s right.”

  You queer? ’Cause there will be no favor-for-a-favor bullshit with my band.

  “So you must be Jonathan, what was it, Starks?”

  “That’s me,” he says. He shakes the owner’s and A&R guy’s hands.

  “Have a seat,” the owner says. “Now, let’s talk. Vic here has been telling me about you guys for a while, and he gave me that single you pressed yourself. That takes some stones. Confidence is good. I have to say I like the sound. And I think a lot of other people will—”

  “That’s old stuff,” Jonathan says, reaching for his back pocket.

  You did not bring that goddamned tape.

  “Jonathan,” I say. “Listen to the man here. We’re talking recording deal here.”

  “He’s right,” the owner says, looking concerned. “But what do you mean ‘old stuff’? Have you changed your sound?”

  The A&R guy glares at Jonathan, annoyed.

  “No,” I say, grabbing Jonathan’s hand, and squeezing hard enough to make him wince. “We have not changed our sound. He’s got some ideas he’d like to talk about.”

  “Good to hear. We can’t have a band changing every five minutes. What would there be to market? A brand-new old band?”

  “Evolution,” I say. “Slow change over time. New ideas to keep things fresh. To keep putting out material people want. That, yes.”

  The owner looks satisfied, and the A&R guy relaxes, and Jonathan jerks his hand free but puts it behind him.

  “So,” the owner says, “as I was saying, we like your sound, both Vic and I, and I think we can really do something for you. Now, we need to find out what you think you need, and then we’ll tell you what we think we can provide.”

  Then Jonathan whips out that fucking cassette he and Jennifer made a couple of hours ago.

  “Here,” he says, holding the tape out to the owner. “This is what you can do for us. Make this song. Get it into DJs’ hands.”

  You dumbass!

  “Jonathan,” I say, wanting to yank the cassette out of his hand and beat him with it. This is our chance—the opportunity. You’re fucking it up. “You can play that for them live. Once we’ve orchestrated it.”

  “Do you have a cassette player?” Jonathan urgently asks. “Best thing I’ve ever written. Scott even thinks so.”

  Don’t! I’m screaming inside. Don’t do this.

  The owner and the A&R guy both look at me, baffled.

  “Yes,” I say. “I did say that. I do think that—with some work—it will be the best we’ve ever done.”

  “Better than ‘Just Walk Away’?” the A&R guy asks.

  “Hell yeah,” Jonathan says. “It makes that sound like a B-side reject.”

  I restrain myself from physically closing his mouth.

  “Vic,” the owners says, “bring that player over.”

  I don’t believe I’m watching this—everything we’ve worked years to get, evaporating.

  “May I?” the A&R guy asks, holding out his hand.

  Jonathan hands over the cassette and then pulls his chair up to the desk.

  I feel my breath coming hard and fast. This is not how you do it: This is how you completely fuck things up. I want to punch him so hard he can’t breathe.

  But the A&R guy pushes the button on the tape player.

  I hear the music I’d heard when I was climbing the stairs not even two hours ago.

  Jonathan starts rapping out a rhythm on the desk. He looks fierce, like he might explode if anything touches him. I close my eyes. At the right moments, he sings a chorus that exists only in his brain.

  I’ll be damned if it doesn’t sound good, that crappy little cassette tape, with this hands rapping out a beat on a desk and him singing imagined choruses. I peek.

  The owner and the A&R guy are both digging it.

  When the song ends, Jonathan lifts his hands and grins like an imp.

  “See what you mean, man,” the owner says, nodding. “That would make a killer single. Especially with your backup vocals and loops.”

  It’s impossible that they haven’t kicked us out. We should be dead in the water. Now they’re stoked to make a single from that crappy junior-high recording.

  Shit like this doesn’t happen. It simply can’t—not even in the movies.

  Chapter 37

  Original Wave Night: Bumps

  —Scott—

  “Call everyone,” Jonathan says, running to the back of the loft, hands up, thumb, forefinger and pinky out.

  “Yes, girl. Yes!” he calls out, leaping onto his mattress where Jennifer’s sitting.

  I rip off my leather jacket, throw it against the wall, grab the phone, and start dialing. I dial Nancy’s number first, but after three rings, her machine picks up, and I have to leave a message, which sucks. Then I call AnnMarie’s, and it’s the same, and I’m beginning to think no one gives a shit that we’ve got a contract now.

  I call the Myopic. Finally I get to tell AnnMarie the news and hear the same excitement I feel. But I tease her
and won’t tell her the details. I do let her know she has to be here for a party at eight.

  Love that. Delivering the news that confirms this is what happens with persistence and determination. Like you said, Sammy.

  I dial Lynda’s number next, finally having something serious to show off to her. Of course, a machine picks up.

  “Lynda. Scott. If you’re there, pick up. I’ve got news. Lynda?”

  Drumming my fingers on the table next to the phone, I’m about to tell her to show up at the party when I hear the phone being picked up.

  ‘Bout time.

  “Hold on,” a man says, “she’ll be right there.”

  Who the fuck’s that?

  I hear the receiver hitting a table, and then some indistinguishable noises. Moments pass.

  “Scott?” Lynda asks.

  “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “Sorry, I was in the shower. What’s up?”

  “In the shower?”

  “Well, I needed one,” she says. “Especially after last night.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, him. He’s the photographer. He’s picking me up.”

  “Right. I see,” I say. “Well … we … got offered a record deal. We’re having a party. Tonight.”

  “Congratulations! Really! That’s wonderful,” she says, sounding genuinely excited. “But, damn. I can’t tonight. I’m going to be busy.”

  Then I hear the mouthpiece being covered.

  “Stop,” she hisses. Then, muffled, she says, “I’m on the phone.”

  “Sorry.” Her voice comes back again, clearly. “Lou’s being a dumbass. So what are you up to Saturday?”

  “This Saturday?”

  “Yeah. We’ll celebrate then. Goddamn it, Lou. Wait,” she hisses.

  I hang up.

  Why’d you have to go and fuck things up like that?

  I call Kenny next. I need to hear someone be excited, hear admiration for sticking to it through all the bullshit, and he doesn’t disappoint. He is so excited, as if he’s the one signing the deal. I enjoy simply listening to his voice and being admired. Like I admired you, Sammy, for trying to get away.

  Even better, once people start showing up, I get to tell the story of the cassette tape and nearly getting kicked out of the office, over and over. Every time, Kenny watches rapt, waiting for me to get us out of the mess yet again, and a high comes on, as if nothing that had happened before can touch me. I’m free.

  Minutes ago, Jonathan got home from work, grabbed a cocktail, and finally joined the party, still dressed like a waitron.

  “Guy,” I say, pointing at his shirt. “Gonna change? Not like you’re getting tips here.”

  He shrugs.

  “Just think,” I say. “Soon we won’t have to wear restaurant rags ever again.”

  “’Bout goddamned time.” He raises his glass. We toast.

  “Next stop—Berlin. Original Wave Night,” I say.

  Grabbing coats, we pile out, tromping down the stairs and into cars.

  Wendy and I are sitting in the backseat of Jennifer’s car when she leans over to me. “Heard Ron mention blow.”

  “Said he’s gonna look for it,” I say.

  “He going to share?” she asks.

  “Didn’t say. Not exactly,” I say.

  “In that case, he’ll share,” she says, putting her hand on my thigh, moistening her lips and smiling.

  As high as I felt a few minutes ago, Wendy’s obvious flirting reminds me of the call to Lynda. Her photographer. Bullshit. Can’t have Lynda thinking I sit around waiting for her.

  Wendy’s hand warms my leg, and her plump tits gorge the fabric of the tight green dress that wraps her body. Ooo, hold on here. Telling Lynda I fucked someone she works for’d be sweet. Bonus: she’d have to wonder if I could influence Wendy to take jobs away from her.

  Let’s do it.

  “Hey,” Jonathan says from the passenger seat. “What are you two conspiring about back there?”

  “Party favors,” I say.

  “Oh, you kids,” he says.

  “I need to talk to Ron,” I say to Wendy, “right after we get in.”

  “I have a feeling we’re going to have too much fun tonight,” Wendy says, slipping her hand around to the inside of my knee.

  I drape my arm around her shoulder. Too bad you’re not here, Lynda. To see it happen.

  We park on Belmont near Sheffield, and the four of us walk past the Belmont ‘L’ station, joining everyone else in front of Berlin’s blacked-out windows. Inside the door, Berlin opens up into a dark world of chandeliers and cartoon-character cutouts hanging from the ceiling and on the walls. In a dialogue balloon directly overhead, Donald Duck says, “Miss Duck, if you’re nasty.” Behind the big bar opposite the dance floor, black-and-white monitors show Max Schreck in Nosferatu. On the boxes overlooking the dance floor, two boys dance together to the thick, erotic rhythms like pole dancers at a strip club. On the main floor, reflected in the wall of mirrors, most of the rest of the boys dance with boys; a few dance with some of the girls. The rest of the girls dance with other girls. They’re all pretty, young, and dressed like it in tight T-shirts and jeans or short skirts with boots, or colorful print shirts, skinny pants, and chunky-soled shoes.

  I tug Ron’s elbow. “How things looking for party favors?”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t see anyone I know here,” he says, flopping his hand over—limp wristed, little finger raised. “This is Kenny’s neck of the woods. Hang on.” He waves Kenny over. “Can you score some cola?”

  “Kylie Minogue tapes?” Kenny asks. “Sure. I saw someone. I’ll need some cash.”

  We peel off some twenties. Cash in hand, Kenny slips off into the crowd. Wendy looks at me expectantly. I raise my eyebrows and give her a quick nod.

  After we order shots, Wendy leans into me to watch the dancers bumping thighs and grinding groins.

  You see, Jonathan. I’m not waiting for Lynda. No one dies if you don’t really care.

  Kenny reappears. “I know the DJ. Says he’s going to play ‘Just Walk Away’ later.”

  “Choice,” I say.

  He leans close to me. “Got good shit,” he whispers. “Ain’t cheap. Could only get two quarters each.”

  “We’ll have to deal.”

  He squeezes two snow-sealed quarter grams into my palm. I stuff them and my driver’s license into my front pocket and grasp Wendy’s elbow and move toward the bathrooms. We walk around the DJ booth, through the back corridor, and into the men’s bathroom. The door to one stall hangs open, but one of the three boys standing at the trough urinal glares at Wendy.

  “I’ll bump first,” I say. “Give it to you outside.”

  She leaves.

  Closing the stall door behind me, I take the rectangular blue snow seal and my driver’s license out. After carefully opening the waxy paper envelope, revealing the seal watermarks and chunks of white, I chop the chunks to loose powder and scoop a small mound onto the corner of my license. Then I flush the toilet with my foot as I inhale noisily, getting everything inside my nostril. My sinuses tingle.

  Kenny’s right. It’s good shit.

  I dig another bump out with the corner and inhale it quickly as the water drains. Folding the snow seal up, I turn to leave, first wiping any VCR from my nose. I step out of the stall and leave the boys’ room right as I feel numbness spreading through my sinuses.

  Wendy’s waiting, and she grins as I slip my driver’s license and the snow seal into her warm hand. She vanishes into the women’s.

  Tipping my head back, I feel the fall—a fresh numbness dropping down the back of my throat. I’m racing standing still. My mind speeds through everything I want to do right now: dance and feel Wendy’s body against mine, and then take her home and prove to everyone Lynda isn’t al
l that. And I want to be in the studio recording, to hear our songs on every radio station, to have people recognize them, to recognize me, to see our CD in shops, to play Metro, to play New York, and I feel like God right now and know all these things will happen, inevitably, and I need to do something—walk or spin or dance—anything other than stand and wait for her.

  I feel my license and the snow seal pressing into my palm, and I slip them into my pocket. Wendy’s sniffing hard. Then “Just Walk Away” starts playing, and I grab her hand, and we push ourselves onto the dance floor, squeezing through bodies, and begin grinding to the music.

  Here, on the dance floor, is proof that things are already happening. My music is enveloping me, inspiring strangers, commanding them to dance. I need to float above the crowd and yell “I made this!”

  This must be how that desert sky god felt on the seventh day. ’Cept I’m no fairy tale. I’m right here, right now, living this.

  We keep dancing until I feel the itchy, demanding need for another bump, and we walk off the dance floor to the back corridor, and the bathrooms, and another inhalation of feeling like a god. And then there is more dancing, and the night is spinning into a fantastic, throbbing paradise.

  After I don’t know how long, I have only one nearly empty snow seal left—enough for one last bump—and my hands are trembling. I ask Kenny if he can get more, and he says he’s already been looking but everyone’s gone. Wendy asks for more. I hand her what’s left, saying that’s the last of it, and want to get out of here soon. She spins away into the crowd.

  Now the need for another bump turns vicious, taking over my thoughts. I’m crashing. We’ll both be zombies soon. Closing my eyes, I try to still my trembling body and relax my tensing jaw. My mind keeps flicking from Wendy, to a corner of my license rounded with a bump of white, to wanting to leave and get the hell away from here and everyone else.

  I run into Ron and Nancy by the bar and tell them we should leave.

  Like now.

  Right then, Jonathan and Jennifer walk by, and I grab them, saying we’re leaving, but Wendy’s still missing. They say they haven’t seen her either, but they tell me not to worry. It’s something she does.