by Jon Skovron
“Cool,” said Raef. Then he looked at us. “Mochas? Lattes? What’s your flavor? I make a mean double con panna . . .”
“Straight espresso for me,” said Jen5. “I’m going to need it.”
“How about you, Sammy?”
“Just water until after I play,” I said. It sucked, but I knew I’d be nervous enough without the caffeine.
Raef shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“Okay,” said Francine. “Now that’s settled, Sammy, put your stuff down and come help me with this goddamn sound system.”
Setting up took a lot longer than it needed to. Mainly because the acoustics of the place were terrible and Francine was picky. I must have stood in front of that mic saying, “Testing, one, two, three,” for an hour while she ran all over the shop, listening, puffing on her cigarettes, swearing under her breath, and instructing me to bring up the reverb or bring down the bass. I knew it wasn’t doing much because there wasn’t much that could be done with a single mic and a cheap amp. But it seemed to make Francine happy, in her gruff, angry kind of way, and it got me some time to get used to being at the mic. I knew it would all change once the people were in there, but it was better than nothing.
Jen5 was doing the same kind of pointless activity with her paintings. She would tilt the frame a little one way, step back, cock her head to the side, then move it back where it was before.
Once we finished with our pointless sound check, I walked around and looked at all the paintings. Jen5 sat in a chair and I could feel her eyes following me. She was probably fighting the urge to trail behind me, which I appreciated. It’s awkward to try to check out someone’s artwork while they breathe down your neck the whole time.
A lot of the paintings I’d seen before, at her house. When Jen5 was painting for fun and not for some assignment, the energy was still there, like the colors had been beaten on the canvas with a club. But these were darker, more private. It was Jen5 without the sarcasm. Without the shield. I wondered if she realized that the vulnerability she had such a hard time showing in real life was on every canvas.
Then I saw a painting that I’d never seen before. It was a portrait of me. Not taken from life, obviously, since we’d never gotten around to that, but from memory. As she saw me in her head. It’s hard to describe how it feels to see something like that. And how different it looks from your own self-image. In the picture, I was just standing there with my hands in my pockets. The edges were blurred, like I was emerging from the chaotic darkness in the background. Or fading into the chaos. It was hard to tell. I looked gaunt and hungry, kind of like a starved wolf. And I was staring up at a distant, dirty yellow crescent moon.
“That’s my favorite,” Francine said from over by the counter.
“It doesn’t have a price marked,” I said. “The rest of them have a little tag in the corner with the title and price.”
“It’s not for sale,” said Jen5. “I just wanted to show it.”
There’s times when you feel so intensely about something or someone that you don’t know what to do or how to say it without it sounding cheesy. There’s times when real communication is just impossible because you’d need to invent a whole new language to describe how you feel. Words like “happy” and “sad” only make it more obvious how impossible it all is. That was how it was right then. I stared at Jen5. She sat in a chair and looked back at me, probably trying to figure out if I liked the painting or not. But “like” didn’t really even make sense. It was a useless word. The painting moved me. See? It sounds cheesy. So I said nothing. But I couldn’t just leave her hanging. I knew that. So I walked over to her, tilted her chin up with my fingertips, leaned over, and kissed her.
Maybe I was thinking it would be a nice, sweet, gentle kiss. But when my lips touched her, it was like she exploded. Her hand grabbed a fistful of my hair and she pressed her mouth against mine so hard it almost hurt. Almost. Funny how “almost hurt” can feel so good.
“God! Get a hotel room!”
Jen5 and I looked up and saw Rick walking through the front door.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“You’re kidding, right?” he said. “How could I miss a double bill of Jen5 and Sammy Bojar?”
“I’m only playing one song,” I said. “It’s mostly going to be a lot of people doing poetry and spoken word.”
“Well.” Rick shrugged. “I’d probably be hanging out here anyway. Where else would I go?”
“What about a club?” said Francine. “Isn’t that where all the gay boys go?”
“Only if they dance,” said Rick. He usually didn’t like being called a gay boy or even really talking about being gay very often. But for some reason, maybe because she was gay, Francine could talk about it as much as she wanted and it didn’t seem to bother him. He turned to Raef, “Hey, dude. Set me up with a tall hot one.”
“See,” said Francine, “you have to go to a club to find one of those. But I’ll have a look around tonight and see if there’s anyone I can introduce you to.”
“That’s not even a little funny,” said Rick. “We talked about this. I’m not in the meat market.”
“Fine, fine,” said Francine. “By the way, I’ll give you free coffee if you work the door tonight.”
“I didn’t think you were charging a cover,” said Jen5.
“I’m not,” said Francine. “I just realized I should collect some e-mail addresses for a newsletter or something. You know, I really want to make this into a regular thing. Plus, it might make people feel better if there’s a bouncer-looking person there.”
“Free mochas all night?” said Rick. “Just to collect some contacts and look tough?”
“Try to look tough,” said Jen5.
We all settled into place. Rick sat by the door with a notepad. He was wearing one of Francine’s baseball caps because he said that would make him look more like a bouncer. I thought it actually made him look more like a frat boy, but I didn’t say anything because he seemed to be having fun. Francine and Raef were both behind the counter, which only happened when they expected to be really busy. Jen5 and I sat on a couch in the corner, trying not to stare at everyone who came in.
First it was just a trickle, mainly regulars who had no idea there was even anything going on. Jen5 was nervous, and it looked like Francine was too. They were probably worried that no one would show. I wanted there to be a lot of people for them, but there was a part of me that hoped the crowd would be small. I was still pretty sure I’d freeze when I got up there to sing, so I thought it would be best if as few people as possible saw my public humiliation. My hopes were crushed around seven thirty, though, when it seemed half the underground scene in Columbus piled in at once. Everyone was checking out Jen5’s stuff and it wasn’t long before she started getting antsy.
“Screw this,” she said and jumped to her feet. “I’m going to hover.”
A moment later, she was weaving in and out of the clusters of hipsters, hippies, punks, skaters, and goths. That left me alone, which was fine. I didn’t feel much like talking anyway. There was this ball of ice in my stomach. I found myself wishing that there were even more smokers than usual; maybe if everyone in the room started puffing, the smoke would get so thick that I couldn’t see the audience. Because that was the only way I was going to be able to do this.
I don’t know how long I sat there slowly sinking into terror, but eventually Jen5 came back.
“Hey,” she said as she sat down next to me.
“How’d it go?” I managed to force out.
“Great,” she said. “I already sold two pieces. Can you believe it?”
“You’re kidding,” I said, hoping there was enthusiasm in my voice. “That’s awesome.” I really wanted to be excited for her, but the dread was weighing me down so much I felt like I could barely breathe.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you feeling okay? You look kind of pale.”
“Can I just do an instrumental?” I a
sked.
“No way,” she said. “You promised.”
I nodded. I had promised. And anyway, as soon as I’d said it, I remembered Gramps poking me in the chest and demanding to know if I was serious about being a musician. Even though he wasn’t there, this was how I could prove that I was serious. At least to myself.
Then the open mic began. Francine was a pretty good emcee. She was funny and everyone knew who she was. She gave everyone two minutes, more or less. She wouldn’t cut someone off or anything, but if you didn’t give some kind of limit, people would just go on forever. Like this girl Melissa that I sort of knew. She had a shaved head except for one purple lock and always wore ripped fishnet thigh-highs that were way too small for her. Anyway, she was one of the first people up there. She busted into some spoken-word thing that started, “I am not a used condom you can flush down the toilet of your life.”
And people wondered why I hated open mics. It was mostly stuff like that. Goofy, recycled, angsty bullshit. One after another, they got up and rattled off their “outsider” rant, or their “secretly suffering on the inside” rant, or the ever-popular “I just got my heart broken and I’m thinking about killing myself” rant.
There was one guy who got up there, though, who I’d never seen before. He looked a little drunk, but he was kind of funny: “I met this girl and she was rich and pretty and she had a WHITE JEEP!!! We started dating and we had a good time and I screwed her in the WHITE JEEP!!! But then one day she got robbed. She was spending the night at my place and someone stole her WHITE JEEP!!! We broke up soon after that because I realized that I didn’t really like that rich pretty girl. I liked—I loved—the WHITE JEEP!!!”
I don’t know why, but that cracked me up. And it was nice to be distracted from my impending doom.
We were listening to some pimply dude in a black trenchcoat mutter about becoming a vampire when I suddenly felt Jen5 tense up next to me.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
“Mrs. Russell has arrived,” she hissed, and there was a lot of conflict in her voice. Anger but also a kind of longing. And underneath, fear.
Mrs. Russell stood in the doorway, her nose wrinkled as she looked around at the big room of troubled teenagers. Her blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun that made her sharp features look even more angular. She wore some dark blue lawyer power suit and still held on to her laptop bag. I don’t think anyone in the world would have stuck out more. Even Mr. Russell, who stood a little bit behind her in his powder-blue polo shirt and neatly combed gray hair, looked less out of place.
Rick, who was still sitting by the door, leaned over and said something to Mrs. Russell, probably something smart-ass, by the look on his face. He and Mrs. Russell had never gotten along. She looked down at him, her nose still scrunched up, but didn’t reply to whatever he said.
“Come on,” whispered Jen5. “Let’s go over there before Rick pisses her off.”
We weaved our way through the crowds to the door.
“Hi, Mom,” said Jen5.
“Jennifer.” Mrs. Russell nodded curtly.
“Hey, Dad,” she said, and gave him a quick hug.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Russell,” I said.
“Samuel,” said Mrs. Russell. Mr. Russell just nodded and gave me a tight smile. When Mrs. Russell was around, he hardly ever spoke.
“It’s going great, Mom,” said Jen5. “I’ve already sold two pieces.”
“How much?” said Mrs. Russell.
“What?” said Jen5. “Uh, twenty-five each.”
“Why so little?”
“Well, they only cost me a couple of bucks in supplies.”
“But your time, Jennifer,” said Mrs. Russell. “Time is your most precious commodity.”
“Okay,” she said in a meek voice.
“Glad you could come, Mr. and Mrs. Russell,” I said, making a point to bring Mr. Russell into the conversation. It bothered me how Jen5 and her mom talked to each other like he wasn’t even there. “This is only the first one Francine’s had and we’ve got a huge crowd.”
“I hear you’ll be performing this evening,” said Mrs. Russell. “Up there.” She pointed with her chin at the tiny platform stage where some hippie dude was going on about how we were slowly killing the earth with pesticides.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Jennifer talked me into it.”
Mrs. Russell’s mouth curled up a little at the edges, which I think was supposed to look like a smile. For reasons I could never understand, Mrs. Russell had always liked me. Not that she was nice to me or anything, but she always seemed to make an effort to smile at me.
“Are you going to stick around for a little while, Mrs. Russell?” asked Rick.
“No,” she said. “I have to get back to the office.”
Rick said, “At nine o’clock on a Saturday?”
Mrs. Russell looked down at him and said, “Imagine that.”
“Aren’t you going to look around at my stuff?” asked Jen5.
“The smoke in this place is disgusting.” Her mouth curled down at the ends, which for most people was a frown, but for her was just normal. “Really, Jennifer. I hope this artist phase of yours is over soon. You’re so much better than this.” She turned to Mr. Russell, who seemed to be totally absorbed in the hippie guy’s poem. “Jeffrey?”
“What?” he said, blinking like he was snapping out of a trance.
“Time to go,” she said.
“Ah,” he said. Then he turned and nodded to us, an apologetic smile on his face. “Sorry we couldn’t stay longer. It looks lovely, Jennifer, and we’re both very proud of you. Samuel, I’m sure you’ll sound wonderful. And Richard . . . well, I’m sure you have contributed greatly to the security of this event.” Then he nodded curtly and looked to Mrs. Russell to lead the way.
Mrs. Russell turned to go.
“Mom,” said Jen5. There was a weird shaking in her voice. Like she wanted to yell or cry or maybe tell her dad to get a backbone or maybe her mother to go to hell. But instead, she said, “Thanks for coming.”
Mrs. Russell shrugged. “For what it’s worth.” Then she turned and left.
Jen5 stood and stared at the empty doorway. A muscle in her jaw twitched.
“Come here,” I said, pulling her to me.
She stiffened and resisted. “I’m fine.”
“I know,” I said, and kept pulling her closer.
“I don’t need comforting,” she said.
“Of course,” I said, wrapped my arms around her.
“It’s just my mom,” she said, but she started leaning into me.
“You’re right,” I said. “I just wanted a hug.”
“Okay,” she sighed. She sank into my arms until her shoulder was against my chest and her head rested on my shoulder.
I don’t know how long we stood like that in the back of Idiot Child. Long enough for me to lose track. I usually wasn’t into public displays of affection, but right then it was almost as if I forgot we were even in public. It was just the smell of her hair and the feel of her ribs expanding and contracting with breath beneath my hands. I thought about our conversation a few nights ago, about teaching each other strength and vulnerability. A couple of weeks ago, she would never have rested her head on anybody’s shoulder, especially not in public. Maybe that meant it was working—teaching each other things, making each other better people.
But then a voice cut into my thoughts. A harsh female voice that said, “And last but not least, to close out Idiot Child’s first ever open mic, is a good friend and great musician, Sammy Bojar.”
Now it was my turn to stiffen up.
“Go on,” whispered Jen5. “Sing me a song.” Then she pushed me toward the stage.
That walk through the crowd was how I imagined a walk down death row would feel. I sure felt like I was about to die, anyway. My knees locked up and I couldn’t walk naturally, like I had forgotten how. I just barely remembered to grab my guitar from where I had been sitting, th
en shuffled the rest of the way up onto the platform. I sat down on a little stool and adjusted the mic.
“Umm,” I said, then looked out at the audience. It wasn’t that they looked hostile or anything. But they weren’t exactly smiling, either, and there were about fifty of them. Fifty people who either knew me or knew someone who knew me and were probably thinking the exact same thing that I thought every time someone got up at an open mic, which was Oh, God, here’s another wannabe singer-songwriter. I got dizzy and I suddenly felt cold and my vision was blurry. I thought I was going to pass out right there. There was no way I could do this. No way I could even talk, much less sing. My eyes bounced around at all the people sitting there staring up at me. They wouldn’t like it. How could they possibly like it?
But then I saw Jen5 all the way in the back by the door. Her arms were wrapped around her torso and she was kind of leaning to one side so that one of her blond dreadlocks fell across her face. Seeing her there in that kilt-and-boots thing, she just looked so hot and sad all at once that I wanted to say forget it, grab her, and take off. But I couldn’t do that, because she’d asked me to sing her a song.
Couldn’t it be just as simple as that? Screw the rest of these people. I hardly knew them. They didn’t even matter. I was just going to sing a song to her. She was learning to be more vulnerable. I guess it was time to show that I was learning to be a kick-ass combat ninja.
“Uh,” I said into the mic. “I was going to play some other song, but I’m not going to play that one now. This one’s for my girl, who’s standing in the back. It’s called ‘No Pain.’”
It started off quiet, but really fast and tense, lots of muted chords.
Every time I think that I have lost myself,
It’s always just a case of being someone else.
And every time I think that there is someone dead,
I know that it’s all just the games in my head.
No pain?
No pain.
Make believe myself in a thirty-second drop.
I don’t believe in fortune or my luck to stop.
Fantasized fictional tragedy to feel.