Book of Love’s roadies are rolling boxes toward the stage.
“Whoa,” Scott says. “Jennifer. What’re you doing here?”
“Chris has got the stand,” I say. “We were dead.”
“Now’s the rush. People are”—he shakes his head—“I … Christ!” He gives a curt wave of his hand.
“I deserve the whole five minutes I’ve been back here,” I say, but he’s already turned his back to me.
“Yes, you do,” Jonathan says. “But could you go down and help Chris now? Can’t talk. Gotta get everything gone.” He turns to talk to some backstage hand who is pulling at his shoulder.
“I was already leaving,” I say to his back.
I walk through the backstage to the stairs, remembering all the times I’ve been out there in the audience, watching, and wanting so much to be onstage, with everyone watching me, holding my fists in the air—and now I’m off to sell CDs.
After my last fight with Scott, I didn’t think I’d be here tonight. I imagined that I wouldn’t be living in the loft any longer either. But Jonathan smoothed things over. He’s like the devil with that silver tongue of his. Scott agreed to let things said in anger go. I agreed to be the smiling salesgirl, but without apologizing for wanting more say in things. That I let lie. For now.
A lot of people look like they’re leaving, and the stairs are getting crowded. It takes me a couple of minutes to get to the bottom. There’s a mob of people at our little fold-out card table, and Chris is answering questions like mad, holding a T-shirt out to one person and taking his money while three others hold CDs up, cash in hand, and I shove my way through the crowd to our table and start taking money from the people wagging their hands at Chris, and people are pushing and asking “how much is this?” and “how much is that?,” ignoring the signs that tell them, and asking me to hold the wall hanging up, and I catch some guy trying to walk off with a CD. I grab it back, but I can’t do anything else, not even call a bouncer, ’cause I’m back gathering tens and twenties, and counting out singles, and I’m not sure if everyone I think has paid really has, but we’ve run out of CDs on display, so I reach into a box underneath and pull a tall stack out, and someone’s trying to get a discount for buying one of each thing, and Chris grabs some change from the stack of bills in her lap, and then more and more, and then she stuffs it into her pocket, but I need change now, and three people try to buy shirts at once, and damn it’s busy. But after a few minutes, it’s down to two people deep, and then only one person, and then it’s empty around the table.
“Thank god you got back,” Chris says. “I was going nuts.”
“Sorry. I planned to come back earlier. But Scott got into this hissy fit. Didn’t expect any rush. I mean, Book of Love’s playing right now. Who leaves?”
“There’ll probably be a couple of people now and then. Almost no one was here when Mercurial Visions was playing.”
Taking a deep breath, I roll the wall hangings back up and straighten CDs out, and then I start refolding T-shirts. We could only afford medium and large. Short, skinny people’ll get stuck looking like they’re in their parents’ clothes. Everything looks as good as it’s going to get on our meagre sales stand. Behind us are the sample T-shirts hanging on a folding screen—one showing the front, “Mercurial Visions: Live,” and one the back, “Micherigan Tour ’89”—and a silkscreened wall hanging open. Next to us is the large booth for Book of Love, its display packed with four different T-shirt designs, many different buttons, and official programs. Two people sit inside, looking bored, as “I Touch Roses” fills the hall around us.
Three girls step out of the bathroom, dressed in tight jeans, thick-soled shoes, and hoop earrings, their cutoff shirts showing belly piercings. They giggle as they walk up the stairs leading to the concert. Now the only people here are working: us, the Book of Love salespeople, and the two chicks taking tickets at a large black stand sitting dead center of the hall. One of them is Vero, whom I sort of know from hanging out here, and I wave hey. The vaulted eighteen-foot-high ceilings make the lobby feel empty.
“I sold about, what, twenty-some T-shirts and thirty, forty CDs. I don’t know how many hangings,” Chris says, moving her hand over the CD-covered table. “Plus what you sold. Close to a grand, I think. More, maybe.”
“Should make Scott happy,” I say. Then I grin at Chris. “Hey. You want to go up and catch some of the show?”
“Me? Oh, yeah,” Chris says.
“Make sure you’re back before the encore, okay?”
“Sure,” Chris says, loping toward the stairs up to the concert hall. “I’ll be back before they finish.”
“Get me a beer,” I yell, but the music is pounding and she’s already started up the stairs. I sit down in the folding chair and run a finger along the open wall hanging Chris created—the image of a man’s torso stretching up, reaching off the fabric and into space, in silver on a black background, like a photo negative. You’d think it would be enough for him to get free art. But expecting her to sit here for free too? She deserves some fun. I stick my tongue out at Scott.
Along the bottom, the words “It’s safer this way/Remember …” run in matching silver tones.
Should have used a line from “Joie.” We will, once we have the money.
The money.
I sit bolt upright.
Chris has all the money. I’ve got no change. If she loses it? Shit!
Leaping out of the chair, I take two steps toward the stairs before remembering the merchandise I’m babysitting. I stop.
“Or are you getting me a beer?” I ask out loud.
“No,” I answer myself. Didn’t hear me. Definitely not.
“Goddamn it!” I hiss. “How could you forget the money?”
Idiot intern move. Ex-intern on any of my shoots. Now I gotta get this solved.
The two at the Book of Love stand look bored. I consider asking them to watch my stuff for about two seconds. Even more stupid than forgetting in the first place.
Hanging next to the red velvet ropes cordoning off the outside doors are the two ticket takers, including Vero. She’s always been cool. Better than losing all that money.
“Hey, Vero,” I say to her. “Could you watch our stand for a couple of minutes? Chris took off with the change. Need to go grab her.”
There’s no one in the lobby right now. Veronica looks at the other ticket taker.
You need to say yes. Please.
The other ticket taker shrugs. Veronica shrugs.
“But,” Veronica says as she comes over to the card table. “It’ll cost. A smoke.” She sticks her hand out.
I slap the rest of the pack into her palm and then take off, running up the half flight of stairs to a landing where the stairs split: one flight to the left, one to the right.
“Which one? Which one? Come on!”
I jog up the left flight. Please be right.
At the back of the main floor, I stop. I glance over the people crowding the back bar and don’t see her. I slide between people toward the stage, scanning faces as I go. Lights blaze and change color, transforming all the faces I see to howling demons and then, quickly, into screaming human fans. Then “Tubular Bells” crashes through my body. It’s sinister, so loud and disorienting—as if I’ll see Linda Blair floating above the audience, her head turning in circles.
All that goddamned money. Scott’s waiting for something like this to happen.
“Where the hell are you, Chris?” I shout into the music.
I squeeze into the audience, sliding toward the stage, the bodies more tightly packed with each person I pass.
Dodging flying elbows, thrashing heads, and lit cigarettes waving around my face, I get so close to the stage there’s no space to go forward, and no one will move.
“Where are you, Chris?”
This is the pe
rfect time for Bossman to walk into the lobby.
I tilt my head back. “Oh, come on,” I yell. “Where—”
Keep your head, girl. Think shoot gone bad. Calm, cool, and collected.
I take a deep breath.
We hate standing in the back, right? We always try to get up front. Not center stage if it’s too packed. So which side?
I look at the right of the stage and then the left. Useless. Can’t see shit.
Whaddya expect, girl?
It’s fifty-fifty. Standing here’s worse than choosing wrong.
Taking off to the right, I search every face around me as each suddenly glows red, blue, and then white, and then falls to an outline, and then blazes red again as the stage lights change. About twenty feet from the stage edge, I can’t push any farther. I strain to recognize her face.
Nothing.
Fine. She’s not here. The other side now.
I turn back to fight my way across the undulating mass of bodies.
Come on, Chris. Where are you? Stay someplace I can see you. Don’t lose that money. Don’t be downstairs, Scott.
Someone grabs my arm.
I turn, saying “Scott, I—”
Chris stares at me, eyes wide open.
Leaning close, I shout, “The money!”
“Oh, crap.” I don’t hear her but only see her lips move. She reaches into her pocket and hands me a wad of bills. “Sorry,” she mouths.
Shoving the money deep into my front pocket, I push my way back through the dazzling, color-changing faces. I’m sure someone has been turned away, because Vero has no money. I take the stairs two at a time, turn on the landing, and hurl myself down the final flight, and as I round the corner, I see no one guarding the table.
“Shit!”
I jump to the floor and start running to the table. Please. Nothing’s missing. Nothing’s—
There he is, standing a yard away, hands on his hips: Jonathan. “Watching the show?”
“I—”
He waves his hand at the table, shaking his head. “I’m counting on you. We all are.”
“Hold on, here,” I say, looking around for Veronica.
“What? You were up catching more of the show.”
I shake my head, and then find Veronica’s standing at the ticket stand, talking with the other ticket taker. I wave her over.
She strolls to the table.
I won’t look at him until he understands that’s not what happened. Not even close.
“Did anyone come while I was gone?” I ask her.
“No. Quiet,” Veronica says. “No one’ll be here until the show’s over.”
“Didn’t leave it alone,” I say to his stern frown. “Chris wanted to see some of the show. She kept the change. Accidentally. I had to go get it. Vero was here the whole time.”
His frown softens. Then he purses his lips, nodding.
Veronica picks up a CD. “Cool.” She turns it over, reading the song list. “Can I have one? For covering you here.”
“Well …” I say, hating that he’s waiting as if this is a test of how committed I am. I sigh.
“Come on,” Veronica says. “They only cost you guys a buck. Least you can do after all the times I let you in free.”
I want to give it to her. I owe her.
“They’re not mine,” is all I can come up with to say.
“A buck?”
“You weren’t here. I mean …”
“I needed a light,” Veronica says. She scoffs.
I look to Jonathan. He raises an eyebrow.
I nod. “Sure. Yes. Take it.”
“Thanks,” Veronica says, walking back to the ticket stand.
“Don’t. I know. Stupid to forget the money in the first place. Stupid to leave. To have gone backstage. I’ve fired people for less than this,” I say, sitting down in the chair. “I’ll pay for the CD to keep the receipts in balance.”
“No,” Jonathan says. “Not that. Nothing bad happened. Could have. Think if someone stole stuff.”
“I did. And, now it turns out it’s a good thing I’m not going on tour. You don’t have to worry about me surprising you backstage. Or forgetting the change, or giving away a CD.” I pick one up and run my finger across the title: “Joie de Vivre.”
“This is your future too,” he says, sweeping his hand over the table.
“Our future. Yes. I know. But I had to get the change.”
“How did it get forgotten? This is—”
“Don’t scold me.” I put the CD back down. “I and Chris, both, are here because we want this to work. We both gave up our nights to work here, for free. Chris even gave you artwork. That you’re selling. For free.”
“But—”
“But what? Scott won’t approve? Of Chris catching a couple of songs in exchange for all her free labor?”
“Now, hold up.”
“No, you wait a moment, here. No one gives and gives and gives, for nothing—not even those girls who are so desperate to be on the cover of a magazine. We give them things. Little things. They cost us nothing but mean a lot. Shows we’re not raping them for their time. I want to feel the same here.”
He’s silent but so wants to say something; his teeth are tapping together.
“So far,” I say, “we’ve sold twenty some T-shirts and thirty, forty CDs. I’m guessing. Not sure about the hangings, but we’ve moved more than a few. We’ve pulled in close to a grand, I’m thinking.”
He nods and almost smiles but keeps silent.
“I’ll pay for the one I gave Vero.”
He shakes his head. “No. I’ll just tell him I gave it away as a promo to a club owner. Easier.”
Why, thank you soooo much. My smile twists into the tone I think this in.
I see Chris walking down the stairs and hope he doesn’t says anything to her.
A roar erupts above us. Book of Love has finished. Next will be the encore, and then the flood of people leaving.
“Let me hurry up and finish loading our stuff. I’ll be here as soon as I can to help. Then we’re meeting at Exit to celebrate.” He smiles for the first time.
“Sure,” I say without enthusiasm.
He turns and jogs to the stairs leading to the stage.
Everything’s gotten so fucked up since Mercurial Visions put out that EP. It’s only getting worse the better things go for them.
I don’t want this—their success.
Chapter 42
Exit
—Jennifer—
After we park on North Avenue, the three of us walk past the Old Town Ale House to Wells and then past the Second City theater and across the street to Exit. Chris and I hello the bouncer, who’s slouching on his stool outside the door. He waves us in with a fistful of dollars, shifting on his stool to open the door. Jonathan follows us into the front bar. Music pounds through the room. A lot of the guys have on black leather jackets, jeans, and boots; the chicks mostly wear either short black skirts with fishnet stockings and granny shoes or long, flowing black dresses, going for the vampiress look.
People crowd the glossy black bar of welded-together machine parts: chains, gears, shafts, and metal plates. Small video screens stuck between bottles behind the bar repeatedly show the bloodiest scenes from Evil Dead II in slow motion. We push our way along the bar and find AnnMarie and Ron drinking beers at the very end.
“The others’re in back, dancing,” Ron says as his camera flashes at us.
Grabbing my hand, Jonathan leads us through the passage at the rear of the room, past the bathrooms and cigarette machine, and into the back room. It’s like the Colosseum; rows of bench seats all around the sides of the room look down into a dance pit covered with a dome-like iron cage. A chainsaw hangs from the very top. We lean over the waist-high wall surroundi
ng the pit and watch the swarm of jerking and twitching bodies.
“Stainless Steel Providers” comes on; Jonathan starts pulling me down the stairs into the pit. Twisting my hand away, I wave him on without me. He bounds down the stairs, and I lean on the wall to watch him dance, my forearms on the cage. Scott’s easy to see; he’s big, like a gladiator, using his size and arms to hack out space for himself to dance in. Nancy’s almost next to him, but she’s like a hooker working a room; she gives a lusty move with this person, then another with the next person, and another with the next, and the next. Long hair flailing, Jonathan dances alone in this crowd, moving as if he’s with an invisible lover.
Once the mood of the songs changes too much, the three of them climb out of the pit: the gladiator, the whore, and the lover, his skin glistening with sweat.
“Shots to celebrate,” Scott says, leading us back through the passageway to the front bar.
The bartender lines up seven shot glasses. I squeeze myself in right behind Jonathan. As the bartender finishes pouring each shot, one of us grabs it.
“To Metro,” Bossman says. “To finally cracking the big time.”
The shots drained, glasses clatter to the bar, upside down. Another round gets poured. Vodka still burning in my throat, I shake my head.
“Don’t be a lightweight,” Chris says, grabbing her shot.
“Bad luck if you don’t,” Jonathan says, handing me the shot.
“To finally making a few bucks,” Scott toasts.
I sip it, feel queasy, and set the rest of the shot down.
“By the way, how much did we make tonight?” Scott asks.
“Sold seventy-odd shirts and about ninety CDs,” I say. “Probably forty of the hangings. Definitely over two grand. Haven’t counted exactly.”
“And that’s as the opening act,” Jonathan says.
“That about covers the van and gas for the tour,” Scott says. “Maybe even some of the food. Still have to cover the hotels. And the merchandise. Those goddamned credit cards: the interest. Then rent on the loft.” He pegs me with his gaze. “This is no game.”
“Yeah. I got it,” I say. “The first six times.”
A Perfect Blindness Page 28