“He’s jealous,” Wendy said, and then she went off about his being queer, but I told her, “You’d think after Martin, I’d see it,” and Chris agreed with me. Wendy simply shrugged, shaking her head.
By then we’d turned from Fullerton onto Clark at the building with the glazed white-tile corner that looked like a castle turret. We snagged a spot right after I said, “Parking karma,” making quotation marks with the first two fingers of both hands.
We run-walked again, almost jumping into the alley leading to Neo to get out of the wind, and didn’t slow up until we got to the door, passing the armless mannequin of a woman and the slideshow of Gothic images on the brick wall: the skulls, crucifixes, mausoleums, and dramatically made-up mourners. There we pulled open Neo’s tin-encased door, and music poured into the alley. Kissing the bouncers as they waved us in, Wendy led us past the cashier’s window and up the stairs to the poured-concrete bar. We grabbed three stools and ordered beers and shots.
This felt more like home with family than either my parents’ house or the loft.
It’s also the last time I can remember feeling really good.
Since then I’ve been able to keep my head together by telling myself that everything that’s wrong is only the stress of the gigs, the constant rehearsing, and the worst of it—finding out that having a recording contract doesn’t mean you make any money.
Scott dropped that bomb one rehearsal after a meeting with Wax Trax! about a full-length CD. He’d also asked about getting the royalties and was told, basically, that that might not ever happen.
I could almost hear the plans we’d made shattering on the concrete floor. No one could believe it.
Then Scott explained how this worked: “Sure. We will get our cut of the profits. That’s the key word: ‘profits.’”
That means that the EP has to earn enough money to pay back the advance money the label “loaned us against earnings” for the recording sessions and mixing sessions. No expense was spared of course—“only the best for our artists.” Once it’s out, the sales have to pay the cover artist, the layout professionals, and for the insert’s printing costs, the jewel cases, and pressing. Then there’s also the sales force going out to get the CD into the stores, the distributor, shipping, and of course company overhead, including the salaries of accountants and management. Basically, if the disc sells well, it might break even. If it goes gold, it could mean some profits, which we would split 50–50 with Wax Trax!, and then the royalties that actually get paid would then have to go pay Nancy back first, and then to cover the band’s costs, and then, if there are a few bucks left, we would then split that four ways.
Tours sponsored by the record company play out the same way. The band busts their asses, and the company gets paid for rent on the spaces, security, promotions, sales, and whatever else they can think of first. What’s left over then gets split between the band and the company. The same holds true with merchandise.
As for gigs at nightclubs and bars, Wax Trax! can’t be bothered with them; the money’s not worth the effort. That’s no different from before the band had a deal; once the costs are paid off, Nancy will get paid, and then what’s left gets split.
In other words, don’t quit your day job.
Scott summed up what everybody was thinking when he pretended to grab a waist in front of him, and thrust his pelvis at the imaginary ass, saying, “Bend over. I’ll drive.”
Right after that rude news, a huge, expensive fashion show, for which Wendy was one of the financial backers, started—Milan does Chicagoland: Italian Windy City—and that was murder. There were all these jerk-off producers, driving me nuts with a million pointless questions, showing me which models they might want and those they did want, and telling me they needed this there at whatever time, demanding to know “why’s Cindy working for Alexander now, and me on Wednesday?” and to “make sure my name is spelled right”; and my pager was going off all the time, even when at night when I was trying to sleep; and I was constantly beat, dragging my ass up the stairs. All I ever wanted to do is nothing, but it seemed like there was another rehearsal or shoot every night.
I had no clue what they were rehearsing for. The EP was out. There was no recording coming up, and no gigs. Jonathan had a few new ideas, but what’s the point if you’re getting screwed?
When I asked, Scott gave me an earful about not having to front the money for the recording, mixing, or production and said that they get wholesale prices on our own CDs, which they can sell themselves, and that they need to be prepared, and he kept lecturing me, and I tuned him out.
A week later, things got better. For a night.
I’m on my way home after walking for some time, knowing my life as TV show would continue: I’d open the door, and the place would be full of people, and they’d be loud and stay until late.
I need someplace to get some peace. Like in a real home.
I sigh, pushing the key into the lock and opening the door.
“Yep,” I say, seeing Scott, Jonathan, AnnMarie, and Nancy. “Gang’s all here.”
I turn to skate to Northside, have dinner, a beer or three, and wait for them to leave.
“Hang on,” Scott says as he hangs up the phone.
“Guys,” he says, raising his thick arms. “It’s official. We’re opening for Book of Love. At Metro.”
I stop and turn back. He’s got on an expression I’ve never seen before: actual joy.
“Cabaret Metro?” Jonathan asks. “Our Metro? On Clark Street?”
He nods.
Whoops erupt, even from me.
The buzz of playing Metro lasts one night.
The next day, Scott’s back to being Mister Business, the Bossman. The whole band is here again when I get home, sitting at our table, planning how they are going to take advantage of this. They don’t even notice me. And I’m the only one who has actual experience running large shows.
“Hey guys,” I say. “You do know that I produce shoots and shows all the time. Part of what I do for a living. Moving people around different locations, taking care of sets, the seating, making sure the right clothes arrive—”
“This is a bit different,” Bossman says. “We know who and what every time, but we don’t have the hundreds of thousands of dollars to spend every night on craft services and assistants. We’ve got to run with the minimum people, and on a shoestring.”
“That doesn’t matter,” I say.
“Matters everything. It’s our money. And we don’t have much.”
I look at him, and he at me. Neither of us blinks.
That he dismissed me so quickly pisses me off, but I’ve never actually risked my own money. So I listen.
It boils down to the fact that the only way we’ll actually make any money, without being a top-ten pop act, is direct merchandise sales and self-managed tours, which we’ll have to take all the risk for. It’ll be all our money down to rent the venues, our money to promote, print up shirts, make wall hangings, buy the CDs wholesale, rent the van, and pay for gas, hotels, and food for our tour, starting with Cabaret Metro and ending wherever we can afford to go on a Midwest tour.
Scott calls it “a great opportunity” and then divides up the work between them to find out costs for a truck, gas, hotel rooms, food, insurance, and whatever else he thought they needed.
I’d sat on the couch, eavesdropping. Prick.
That meeting ignites five weeks of chaos: phone calls, more meetings, and grabbing meals at ten at night and frequently at two in the morning. When they aren’t working at their restaurants, they’re rehearsing, signing agreements, booking venues and hotels and a van, trying to get deals on printing T-shirts and backdrops, and buying their own CDs from Wax Trax!, putting down deposits using cash advances and exhausting one credit card after another.
Me? I’ve been left doing chimp work: fetching things, making
calls strictly to find out contact names. Stuff I’ve always delegated.
Like my having to go pick up the paperwork for Metro today. Fetch, girl, fetch!
The train pulls into the Lake Street station, and I make the long transfer to the O’Hare line, the folder flapping as I march through the tunnel, slipping around the buskers and other riders.
It’s not as if I’ve had any chance to talk with Jonathan. Mostly he’s consumed with the tour, working his next restaurant shift, or sleeping. When I do get time with Jonathan, he’s only partially there. I get it; I really do. But I need to talk to him, at least once in a while. I get lonely, in spite of always being around people, or his body lying next to mine.
My train comes almost as soon as soon as I step onto the platform. Lucky with the trains.
Then, about five days before Metro, the tour comes together, leaving us dead broke and with six credit cards maxed out. We had to ask Randal if he could take only half the rent. Scott decided we shouldn’t take any more money from Nancy, because we still owed her for the recording sessions, and anyway, she’d already hinted her bank was closing.
We haven’t been busted like this even after Scott quit his job. We never had debt then.
In the press releases and promotional material, Jonathan’s billing it as the “Micherigan Tour” after Lakes Michigan and Erie: Cabaret Metro in Chicago; the Oriental Theater in Milwaukee; Merlyn’s in Madison, Wisconsin; Jane’s Tavern in West Lafayette, Indiana; Radio Radio in Indianapolis; the Lighthouse in Cincinnati; Jackie Lee’s Night Club in Akron, Ohio; the Newport Music Hall in Columbus; and, finally, Frankie’s Inner City in Toledo, Ohio. It spans nine cities in ten days; they’ll be staying in seven hotels, and Jonathan’s mother’s and Tanya’s houses in Columbus. Boxes full of T-shirts, CDs, and silk-screened wall hangings have all arrived and sit in stacks against the wall. Because of minimum orders, it’s more than we can possibly take with us on the road.
Between the hearse, Kenny’s car, and a van, they have room for six people: Ron’s working as a roadie and photographing the tour in addition to tossing in his hearse. Kenny’s the other roadie, and sales boy for the merchandise, as well as driving his own car.
“This is our shot. Let’s not blow it,” Scott said this afternoon, right before sending me out to fetch the paperwork for Metro. “Don’t forget to grab gyros on the way back.”
Yep, that’s me: gofer-chimp-ATM.
While Scott not taking me seriously and having me fetching things for them while asking me to pay for most everything annoys the hell out of me, what really pisses me off is that Jonathan never even asked me to help out—not in any significant way. I do production work all the time. I do it for a living.
Trying to not be too tempted to “accidentally” lose these papers I’m fetching for them, I turn to the window and watch the train emerge from the underground tunnel, rise up to the elevated tracks, and pass through all the buildings. I imagine it would suck to live in one of the apartments flanking the tracks. Trains, 24-7. How do you sleep?
From the North Avenue stop, it’s a quick walk to Friar’s Grill. I pay for the gyros and fries. Walking ATM.
Back at the loft, I set out each of the tin containers on our table. Scott sits next to me. I lay the folder next to his elbow. He nods.
Can’t say thank you? Even for lunch?
We unwrap the foil from around the gyros, and steam bursts out with the smell of spiced lamb and garlic. They tear into the shards of seasoned lamb and pita, a stream of white sauce dribbling down each of their chins. Hungry and tired as well, I bite into my gyro; it’s fatty, hot and full of garlic, cumin, yogurt, tahini, and dill.
A couple of minutes later, I’m full and put down what’s left of my gyro. Scott’s already done, having torn out big bites. My lover’s still working on his, and once he swallows the last inch of it, he sucks the juice off his fingers.
“So,” I say, “when do I get to see you guys?”
“We’ll be back June second,” Scott says.
“I mean in concert.”
“Well,” he says, “I don’t … know.”
I ugly up a frown at him.
“At Metro, we need someone to sell the merchandise. Kenny can’t get the night off, so …”
“But—”
“Look,” he says. “We’ve got roughly seventeen thousand dollars in credit card debt. Every time we take a breath, those bastards pile on interest. We’re all taking two weeks off work. We’re completely broke. If we don’t sell this merchandise”—he waves his hand at the stacks of boxes—“we’re screwed. No rent money, no food money, and we’ll be working for MasterCard and Visa for the rest of our lives. Yes, we’ll make something from Metro, but it’s punk. We’re the opening act. They expect us to be grateful to even step onstage. Sales of merchandise is the only way we’ll make any money. We’ve already gotten the first of six credit card bills. Over nine hundred in minimum payments. Randal’s already holding off the Harmen Company for the other half of rent for this month. We need cash now simply to make sure we have a home to come back to next month.”
I look at Jonathan.
He raises his eyebrows.
“We really need you to come through,” Scott says, “with many hundreds of dollars in sales. A thousand. Two, even. Help us keep this roof over all of our heads.”
I sigh. Same as it ever was.
Bossman Scott stuffs three fries into his mouth.
“How about on the road,” I say. “Kenny will be selling—”
“Jennifer,” Bossman says, “this is not about you. Another person means more food and another hotel room. Another car means more gas. In other words, spending more money we don’t have. Can’t do it. Not for anyone.”
Jonathan’s frowning as if he’s looking at photos from a car crash.
“I’ll pay for myself. My own hotel room.”
“Okay. Well then, I’ll let you make the choice,” Scott says, holding up a hand, fingers spread. “Because of the extra expenses, do we?” He pinches his thumb. “Lose electricity?” He pinches his forefinger. “Gas.” He pinches his middle finger. “Telephone.” He pinches his ring finger. “Or is it Visa you’d like to avoid?” He pinches his pinky. “MasterCard? Or were you thinking that this place is too big?”
“Scott,” Jonathan says, holding a hand up. “Got it.”
“Sure I get it,” I say, crossing my arms. “Jennifer: everyone’s walking automatic teller machine.”
“’Scuse me?” Scott snaps.
“When did it become my responsibility to pay for everything here?”
Jonathan starts.
“I have to pay for electricity, gas, telephone, all the credit cards, rent? When did you two concoct this plan?”
Jonathan shakes his head at me.
“I never said that,” Scott says imperiously.
“You told me that if I want to spend my own money to see you, I have to choose what not to pay. Where’s you paying for anything?”
“What the hell do you mean?” Scott demands.
“That I’m paying for way more than half of living here, and you treat me like a genital disease: it felt good getting me, but you hate having me around.”
“Jennifer,” Jonathan says, reaching over to touch my arm. “That’s not—”
“The fuck it isn’t,” I say, yanking my arm away. “I’m keeping this place afloat. And I want some say in what I do.”
“See!” Scott shouts, jumping up, thrusting his finger at me. “That is exactly why I should never have let you move in.”
Chapter 41
The Better Things Go
—Jennifer—
The stage lights go black. The audience roars.
I bite my lip and then look at the backstage pass again: a white fabric sticker on my shirt with “Cabaret Metro” in slashing blue letters at the top o
f a blue square, and Book of Love stamped there in smeared black ink.
God-damn rocks. Mercurial Visions just opened for Book of Love. At Metro.
“Joie! Joie! Joie!” the audience starts chanting, stomping their feet, whistling, and clapping.
My song.
“Joie! Joie! Joie!” The noise gets louder and louder.
From the blacked-out stage, the first notes sound. Cheers explode. The lights blaze.
“Where there’s love,” Jonathan sings, “there are ghosts.”
My body is on fire. I grab onto a box edge to keep from floating over the stage and then out over the audience. They’d look up and wonder, “How can she do that?!”
When the music stops, the lights fall dark and the cheers grow so loud, like thunder. As loud as if I were onstage, bowing.
A moment later, Scott comes around a corner from the stage, pumping his fist in the air; his torn-up jeans, tight black shirt, and black boots make him look exactly like the rock star he is right now.
Popping out from behind a scrim, Ron kneels, his camera flashing rapidly three times at Scott.
I push myself between some travel boxes. Scott shouldn’t see me; he wants me at the table, selling T-shirts and CDs. But there’s no way I’m missing being backstage at Metro for this moment. Not after all I’ve done.
Smiling wider than usual, Nancy appears next, the slit in the long, slinky black dress flying open, exposing her long legs. The camera continues its hail of flashes. Flipping up two fingers like horns, AnnMarie appears next in a short black dress, which here transforms her to sexy. When Jonathan rounds the corner, he shambles off stage, his long shirt flying open, the sweat pouring down his chest, glistening in the camera’s flashes.
Stepping out from between the boxes, I hug Jonathan. We kiss.
Flashing, Ron’s camera captures us here, backstage at Metro; it’s a shot of the real me.
Soaked with sweat, Jonathan smells like he’s just had sex.
A big man with long dark hair taps him on the shoulder. “You need to get your equipment gone. Ya got ten minutes.”
A Perfect Blindness Page 27