“You like it spiked, Ricky?” she asks. “Some vodka in your lemonade?”
He nods and reminds her of their dinner date before his set starts that evening. “You’ll be there, Annie?”
She pours the liquor straight from the bottle. “Sure thing, Ricky. Toby’s Goodeats?”
“How ‘bout The Pilot?”
“No problem. You meeting the guys there before the gig?”
“Not sure who’ll be there. As long as you’re there, my foxy lady.” He downs the lemonade, gives her a smoldering gaze and a long kiss and says: “You’re the sweetest thing, Annie.”
That hungry look in his eyes makes her wish he did not have to leave so soon. The chemistry between them is ablaze. But there is also this emptiness as if they were actors in a movie and their affair would end when the filming wraps up. In her mind, she replays “You’re the sweetest thing, Annie” in a Humphrey Bogart accent — he is Humphrey Bogart and she Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca, playing their roles. Oh, what the hell. The sex is good. That’s why they call him the chick-magnet.
She picks up Ricky’s glass and puts it on a tray. Good things in life don’t last.
She opens her new package of birth control pills and is glad that the first pill is missing from its spot — she had not forgotten to take it that morning, after all. She’s lived in mortal fear for the past couple of weeks, since Ricky entered her life and her bed, until her monthly cycle put her mind at ease and, in her words, Aunt Flo from Red River visited. She gives a sigh of relief. I get pregnant before the guy pulls his pants on, for Pete’s sake.
She lifts the lid of the console, drops in a Bob Dylan album, and moves the stylus to the third song, “It Ain’t Me, Babe.” She pours some vodka into her lemonade and leans back into the sofa. She listens to the lyrics and begins to hum along — and the song reminds her that she and Ricky are all wrong for each other. She is melancholic as if the lyrics are intended for her. Did she choose to be with Ricky because he is not the settle-down type?
After finishing her drink, she walks down the staircase to her bedroom on the second floor, retrieves the photo album, and slowly peruses it. She picks up the phone and dials, and is thrilled when her sister in Ottawa answers on the second ring. They chat and Anna asks to speak with Jane. Anna’s tone becomes girlish. “My little Janey! It’s your Auntie Annie. How are you, my sweet? My darling little girl! You playing with your dolly? She’s saying, mama? Mama! And how old are you today? No, no, that was yesterday, my sweet. Today you’re two and one hundred and thirty two days. Yes you are! Here, you say it now.” After they sing, “Teddy bear, teddy bear, turn around . . .” and “Hey, diddle, diddle . . .” and after many kisses sent over the phone, Anna sets the receiver back in its cradle. She wipes the tears off her cheeks. “How I love you, Janey,” she sighs and begins tidying up. She always tidies up when harnessing in the nervous energy. She pauses by the assortment of Jane’s photos on the wall, kisses the tip of her finger and places it gently on each photo.
She ties her hair in a ponytail and splashes her flushed cheeks with cold water. It’s Saturday night and a more dramatic look than usual is in order. Ricky and Neil Young and the revived Mynah Birds, which had become the R&B house band at the Mynah Bird Café, are playing in their new outfits designed by Colin Kerr, the owner of the coffee house. Rumour has it that Ricky and Neil and the other musicians had reluctantly agreed to the costumes, and from the few swear words Ricky used when describing the outfits, Anna wonders how the evening would evolve. Looking her best would be the way to go. Ricky likes me looking hot! She picks out a mini dress with a plunging neckline and sandals covered in glitter. A long, cool, shower before dressing is the best way to refresh for an evening with Ricky and his band.
CHAPTER 19
COLIN KERR HAS been promoting his revived house band for a whole month. In addition to the band’s new outfits, he has hired a new dancer and spruced up the façade of the coffee house.
As Liza and David approach the Mynah Bird, David whistles through his teeth.
Liza stares at the façade. The second-floor glass booth is aglow with lights that fade into purple, blue, and radiate back to red, with a voluptuous go-go dancer gyrating to rock music, her waist-long black hair swishing to the electric guitar’s “waaang” and “chung” spilling onto the sidewalk.
She stops in front of the entrance: “Colin’s gone all out! No expense spared!”
David passes his palm over his eyes. “It’s a big night for the band. I asked Ricky to save us a table.”
“Ricky James?”
David nods.
She pulls out a pair of cat-eye sunglasses from her purse. They are trimmed with rhinestones and hide almost a third of her face.
“That’s some disguise!” David says with a chuckle. “Did I tell you I love your dress?”
Liza laughs. “Only five times.” She runs her palms along the Campbell Soup labels printed on the cellulose fabric of her paper dress. A friend brought a few patterns from the Montreal Expo, where they are featured in the pulp and paper pavilion, complete with matching paper plates and napkins for a party theme. Liza chose the Campbell Soup pattern, inspired by Andy Warhol’s design. She would have liked a Marilyn Monroe and an Elvis Presley print as well, but they were all sold out. She has been fascinated by Warhol’s Graphic Art style works — paintings of iconic American objects — Coca-Cola bottles, electric chairs, and famous personalities.
David wraps his arm around Liza’s waist, pulling her into him slightly. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t rain,” he chortles and raises an eyebrow pretending to ogle her.
They enter the bar and the band is in full swing. Colourful strobe lights are flashing and the crowd cheers wildly as Neil Young goes into the band’s feature song, Big Time. As the lyrics call upon the spirit of the past to guide the present, Young tosses the harmonica to Ricky James. To the crowd’s delight, Ricky catches it and gets into the song. Bruce Palmer, the bassist, is playing with his back to the audience. His faceless gangly figure in black reminds Liza of a character from a horror movie. The rhythm is electrifying, and the club pulses with beat.
A waiter points Liza and David to a table not far from the stage.
Looking at the band, Liza calls out over the noise: “I just saw those weird outfits on the newsflash! For a few seconds. Didn’t hit me it was them.”
The bulletin on CFTO Television showed the Mynah Birds stepping out of a black limousine only to be chased by a group of screaming girls who ran after them through the Eaton’s store on Queen Street, pleading for autographs.
“A promo stunt. Set up by Colin. The man loves the spectacle,” David says, looking at the bar owner who is humming to the song and passing drinks over the counter, his mynah bird Rajah on his shoulder, and as he moves about, the bird’s black feathers take on a translucent purplish hue.
On stage as in the broadcast, the musicians are decked out in black leather jackets over yellow turtlenecks. Their tight black pants are tucked into black leather boots with Cuban heels dyed yellow.
Liza props her sunglasses on her head for a clear view. “Their music’s great! But the outfits?”
“They’re supposed to look like mynah birds. Ricky and Neil were ready to walk. Give up the whole thing. But they’re the house band here. Hard to get gigs like that. So they gave in.” He takes a drag of the cigarette and adds: “Colin wanted them to shave their heads to look like his damn bird.”
Liza rolls her eyes and props her chin in her hands. “I’m sure that didn’t go over well!”
The section of the room where Liza and David sit is lit mostly by candles in Chianti bottles. The flashes of strobe lights accentuate the clouds of smoke and obscure reality, and Liza feels as if she is in a cave of sorts, inhabited by otherworldly creatures.
Their drinks arrive. Liza takes a sip of the Pink Lady and smacks her lips. “Gin and grenadine —
delicious!”
Another waitress empties a large tray of beer on the table next to them, occupied by a group of hippies shrouded in clouds of smoke that hang low and filter the dim light. Men in tie-dye shirts and scruffy bellbottom jeans with rips exposing bare knees. Women in paisley skirts and halter tops, accessorized by love buttons and peace symbols, and some with flowers in their hair. Slumped in their chairs, they look dazed, passing around the platters of edibles and half-finished joints in slow motion, as if bored by it all.
Pockets of excited teenagers, loud and attention hungry, an annoyance to many. How did they get in? Liza wonders.
A few Pink Ladies later, Liza is rather relaxed, her movements deliberate and leisurely as if she were imitating the hippies.
A group of bikers in sleeveless shirts showing off their Death Head tattoos and club logos occupy a corner, greasy ponytails part of the whole getup. Liza is reminded of David’s defaced tattoo cowering under his sleeve. She needs to tell him that it can be removed. But doubts linger. Would he be offended? She needs to find the right moment — a good way to let him know how it makes her feel.
Here and there she spots couples and singles who she believes have nine-to-five jobs like her. And David across the table from her looks more like a hippie than a post-secondary instructor.
The band announces it’s taking a break. The musicians put down their instruments and the record player is back on, screeching noisily.
Liza excuses herself and heads to the washroom. After stepping out of the cubicle and washing her hands, she discovers that the pull-down towel is a muted shade of every colour except white. She steps into the hallway, rummaging through her purse for a tissue. She is a bit tipsy from too many Pink Ladies. As she makes her way along the dim hallway fumbling through her bag, she collides with another woman. She looks up. It’s Anna. They stare at each other in surprise. Anna looks gorgeous in her orange mini dress, and Liza is stunned. Anna usually does not wear fancy dresses. After a moment, Anna says: “Isn’t it a fantastic evening! The Mynah Birds! They’re fantastic!”
“Sure are. Fantastic. You look gorgeous!”
“Love your Souper dress. M’m! M’m! Good!” Anna rhymes off the Campbell Soup commercial. They hug as if it has been a while, although they see each other in the office every day. But that’s not the same. They haven’t been hanging out as they used to. After work. And on weekends.
Anna’s eyes are wide, cheeks flushed. “Isn’t Ricky hot?”
“Hmmm, sure,” Liza murmurs, feebly. Then she adds with more enthusiasm: “The band is amazing.”
There is a moment of awkwardness and Anna says: “What the heck. If you like the man. You only live once.”
“David? You talking about David?”
“Ricky. I’m fucking Ricky.”
Liza stares at Anna. It’s not like her to use those words.
Anna runs her fingers through her hair and flips it off her face. “It’s your business, girl. Who you date. I was worried, that’s all.”
Liza’s eyes widen. “Worried about me seeing David? Why? Give it to me, straight. Isn’t that what friends are for?”
Anna puts on a cheery smile. “Let’s put it aside. Let’s talk about fun stuff. You two fucking yet?”
Liza’s mouth drops in disbelief. “You alright?”
Anna shrugs. “Yeah, yeah. Fucking. Making love. What’s the difference?” She draws Liza into an embrace, and Liza wonders what’s going on with Anna. Her cheerfulness is feigned. Does she sense a spark of sarcasm? What’s bothering her? She takes a deep breath and resolves to say nothing. Things have been tense between them lately, so it’s best to just go along.
Anna wraps her arm around Liza’s waist, and leads her to her own table. David and Ricky are talking about acoustics, and they all move toward the bar where some of the musicians are leaning on the counter, drinks in hand.
Neil Young is holding a tall glass of water in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He bows slightly to Liza and she nods. There is a certain look about him. Eyes intense, he appears aloof, self-contained. In this whole noisy crowd, he seems alone. It would be some time later when he becomes a Canadian icon that she would recall this meeting with much fondness.
Palmer’s eyes are concealed behind round yellow lenses and his long hair hides much of his face. But away from the flashing strobes, his energetic, friendly demeanour makes her feel as if he were an old friend.
The band is back on stage and the place is rocking. Liza and David join Anna at the cluster of tables reserved for friends-of-the-band, and Liza wonders whether meeting Anna here was not by chance. Did David and Ricky arrange this meeting to smooth things over between her and Anna? David is clearly more than casually acquainted with Ricky. But the evening is magical and she pushes aside the petty details.
* * *
Another waitress sets a large tray of beer and cocktails on their table and is welcomed with — snookums, sugar-lips, sexy-pants — and asked where she’s been their whole life. She is wearing a pink diaphanous mini dress. A large gold bow holds her bleach-blond hair in a ponytail high at the top of her head, and her shiny white go-go boots reach half-way up her thighs. She has hearts and flowers painted on her bare arms and legs. Her midriff, veiled by the see-through fabric, allows a glimpse of similar artwork. She greets the customers by name, and answers the many questions in clipped sentences — Paint-in at Penny Farthing next door . . . Be-in at City Hall . . . last-minute Sit-in. Spotting Liza, she waves enthusiastically and shouts over the din of the crowd how great it is to see her, then pointing at Liza’s dress, rhymes off, “M’m! M’m! Good!” Liza laughs and shouts back some pleasantries and wonders who this woman could possibly be.
Anna rolls her eyes. “Goodness gracious! If it isn’t Helena of Troy.” She turns to Liza. “You two know each other?”
Liza is perplexed — the waitress’ voice sounds familiar but she cannot place her. Her smile — the way her lips curve upward in such a charming way to reveal those perfect teeth and the way those large blue eyes light up — makes her wonder where she had seen this woman before. There is something about her — this serenity — as if she belongs in another world and her presence here, in this crowded bar, is just a disguise. As if she were an angel sent from heaven on a mission.
Anna called this woman, Helena. The same Helena who waitressed at the Savarin Tavern? Suddenly David’s comment about the black garb makes sense.
A few more drinks later, Liza makes her way toward the washroom again. The room is swaying as she shuffles between the tables and chairs and knees and elbows and instead ends up at the bar. Helena is leaning on the counter, downing tequila shots with a few friends: a woman whose body is painted with words “love” and “peace”; a few men bare waist up, chests and backs painted with wiggly stripes that resemble waves. They lick the salt sprinkled between the thumb and forefinger, take a gulp of tequila, and bite into a slice of lime. Liza joins them. After a few shots, she mumbles something about looking for the little girls’ room.
Helena picks up the tray refilled with drinks and heads to a table nearby. Liza lets go of the counter and weaves toward the flashing neon light. Finally she is in the washroom. The cubicles have shrunk in size and she keeps bumping into doors and walls. Stepping out of the washroom, she wipes her wet hands on her skirt and shrieks. Peering closely at the damp patch of her dress, she is relieved — the paper fabric is a bit rumpled, but still in one piece. Although a bit dizzy, she recalls that the fabric consists of two layers of paper sandwiching a rayon scrim for strength, and she breathes a sigh of relief. Now her head is spinning, but there is nowhere to sit down, so she heads to the alcove at the end of the hallway, leans her back against the wall, then slides to the floor. Seated on the parquet in a secluded nook, legs extended in front of her, she closes her eyes and exhales in relief.
After a while Liza hears her name called. When she looks u
p, Anna is settled next to her. She is saying something but it’s difficult to hear because of the blasting noise all around. Helena is slumped on her other side, eyelids drooping, eyebrows raised as if tired of fighting gravity. But the joint between her thumb and forefinger is held firmly. Her pinkie is extended as if she is a little girl having a tea party using her mother’s china cups. They pass the joint and Liza recalls that she hadn’t done this since university. Now, Liza discerns that the conversation is about the Paint-in at the Penny Farthing coffee house. Hundreds of people had themselves painted as a way to demonstrate the importance of freedom of expression. Anna unzips her dress and pulls the top down to her waist to reveal the red hearts and cupids armed with arrows painted on her voluptuous breasts — a surprise for Ricky.
Helena gets up and weaves her way toward the bar. She is back carrying a platter of cucumber sandwiches she sets on the floor next to them. They begin eating hurriedly as if they’d been starved for days. Liza is amazed at her voracious appetite and how quickly the plate is emptied. They are talking all at once loudly, but Liza is not sure what about, except that it’s really, really important. And funny. They’re laughing so hard her stomach hurts. All the while the music is pounding, and Liza keeps saying how good the band is and how she really gets it. Really gets it! She kicks off the stilettos and as the sandals bounce against the wall, they laugh because it’s sooo funny. They’re drinking some red coloured juice and gobbling corn chips out of a noisy bag. Helena produces a pair of tweezers to hold the end of the joint, and as they draw in the smoke and pass it around, she keeps saying: “This some real fuckin’ ass shit.”
Stone Woman Page 11