The Original 1982

by Lori Carson

  “Of course I do,” he says. “You’re still a little bird, just a little fatter one.” His accent makes this sound more charming than you’d think. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, heading off into the snow.

  I don’t know why I believe him, but I do. After he goes, I climb the stairs back to the apartment, turn off the lights, and polish off the rest of the wine in the dark. I’ve spent way too much on it and the meal. I don’t know how I’m going to stretch what’s left in the bank for another two weeks.

  Outside, the snow makes it feel as if the whole city is asleep, or maybe it’s Gabriel’s absence that makes the night seem so quiet.

  Fifty

  Okay, here’s the deal. You can open for us. There’s just one small catch.”

  “What’s that?” Alan has pleaded my case to Charlotte. Everyone in her band is a friend of mine. Still, I don’t get the feeling she’s a fan.

  “She wants to take someone who can help with the equipment.”

  “What does that mean exactly?” I feel a little sick to my stomach.

  “It means you might have to help with load-in, or whatever. It’s just us and a tour manager, so everybody has to pitch in. But you know, it’ll be fine. She’s just being a dick.”

  “What do you think I should do?” I ask. It becomes more real as we talk about it, terrifying and exciting.

  “You should do it,” he says. “Don’t worry about Charlotte. You need to get out and play.” Alan has been bugging me to “get out and play” for a long time.

  “I don’t know,” I say with a big sigh.

  “Just say yes,” Alan says.

  So I agree to open for Charlotte Winter. Six dates over ten days. The calluses on my fingertips are practically gone, and I can’t remember how to play most of my songs, but I think I can get it together, provided I practice every day. I have just two weeks to prepare.

  They’re not too thrilled about it at the office, but I’ve got one foot out the door of that place anyway. When I come back, I think I might go to one of the bigger real estate agencies, get into sales. But I don’t want to even think about real estate now. Part of me hopes that once I’m out there, playing music, I’ll never have to do anything else again. I know, realistically, there’s no way we could live on the seventy-five dollars per show I’ll be making. But I don’t want to worry about that, or anything beyond this chance I have to play my songs for an audience.

  After you go to sleep at nine, I work at the long table. Play and sing quietly. I make notes about capo placement, keys, and chord changes. I practice for hours, playing the songs in a changing order, trying to come up with a dynamic set. I want the first song to feel like the beginning of a story, and the last, a postscript. My fingers get sore and then become limber. My voice begins to open up. I polish the Martin and put new strings on it. I almost feel ready when the two weeks have passed, and it’s time to go.

  On the morning I’m to leave, we sit together, our bags at our feet, and wait for my parents, who are coming to pick you up. You’ll spend two weekends at their house. My mother will bring you back to the apartment for the five school days in between.

  The cats watch us warily. They know the suitcases are not a good sign. I’ve arranged for a friend to come by to feed them.

  “I love our house,” you say.

  “I’m glad,” I say. “I love it, too.”

  It really is a lovely place with its big windows and terrace, all your colorful drawings and the well-used furnishings of our life together in this open front-to-back room. It’s my favorite of all the apartments.

  “And I love Tiger and Kiki.” The cats raise their ears when you say their names.

  “I know you do.” I think we’re both nervous to leave, to be apart from one another and have our routine disrupted. We jump when the doorbell rings. “There they are,” I say. For a second, I feel exactly as I used to when you were a baby and I had to go to work at the restaurant, when it was an agony to leave you. “Ready?” I ask.

  “Yes,” you say. You’ve got your heavy backpack over your shoulder.

  My father comes through the door, all business. He rubs his gloved hands together and takes your bag. “Grandma’s waiting in the car,” he says. “Ready to go?” I hear his New York accent. He was born in the Bronx and raised in Queens.

  I give you a big hug, breathing in the sweetness of you. “I’ll call you later,” I say. “Thank you, Dad.” I put my arms around him, too. Then you’re gone, and it’s just me, alone with my terrible fear of performing and of being away from home.

  I lift my bag to my shoulder and grab my guitar. Lock up the apartment and head toward the subway. I’m to meet Charlotte, Alan, and the others at the van rental place in the West Thirties.

  They’re already loading up the van when I arrive. Charlotte doesn’t even say hello, just looks at the size of the bag I’m lugging and shakes her head. “I don’t know where that’s going to fit,” she says, and gets into the passenger side of the van, in the front seat.

  I exchange greetings with Alan, Dave, and JC, the drummer. They’re friendly and warm enough to make up for Charlotte’s rude welcome. The tour manager, a skinny road rat named Neal, comes around the side of the van, smiling, to shake my hand. “Is that it?” he asks of my big bag.

  “And my guitar.” My Martin is in its hard blue case.

  “Okay, no problem.” He takes the bag from me. The guys are unloading the van to reload it. Packing it up is a science. Guitars, amps, and drums fit together like puzzle pieces. They haven’t done a van tour in a while. It’s a downgrade from the bus they had last time. But they’re cool about it.

  Once it’s done, we get in and go. Up the West Side Highway, New Jersey across the river, the George Washington Bridge ahead. Except for Charlotte, who doesn’t say a word, spirits are high. Everybody laughs and talks. I sit in the farthest back and study our itinerary: Northampton, Boston, New York, Philly, Baltimore, and D.C.

  Fifty-one

  This is what it’s like. They sound-check first. Charlotte, bitch that she is, drags it out for as long as possible, so I don’t really have time to do a proper check. I’m not sure if she does it on purpose, but whatever her motive, I only get a quick line check fifteen minutes before I’m set to go on.

  Every night I have to prove myself to the club owner, the soundman, and Charlotte’s crowd. It’s like they assume I’ll be terrible. They make me earn every bit of respect. During the first couple of songs, I struggle. I can’t find enough breath. My hands shake so badly I can barely hold them on the strings of my guitar. But at some point, around song three, the magic takes over. My voice sails into the crowd, carrying the pretty melodies and thoughtful lyrics of my songs, and I can feel the whole energy of the room change.

  Someone yells: “Who are you?”

  I say my name into the microphone and my ego makes a confused but happy recovery. The high of turning it around and connecting with an audience is pretty amazing. But I don’t know, Minnow. I’m not sure I have what it takes to win over the world this way, one small club at a time.

  After my forty-minute set, I go out into the audience and watch Charlotte and the band play. I get to know all of her songs and find my favorites. When she performs, it’s like she’s been taken over by an angel. Every night I almost forgive her coldness toward me. She’s a good songwriter, and her voice is powerful. She can really play, too. She and Alan trade off licks. It’s fun to see him doing what he was born to do. He moves his head and twists his mouth. Dave stands beside him, cool and solid on the bass. Nothing moves on him but his hands. And JC? Well, there’s nothing sexier than a good drummer. I can feel his solid playing in my belly.

  After they finish, we find a local bar and drink and talk until last call. Charlotte doesn’t come with us. She’s always worrying about her voice and goes straight from the gig to the motel. Neal says we were supposed to have shared a room, but she changed her mind. So I have my own, which is fine with me. The boys are all doubled u
p.

  After the show in Boston, JC comes back with me to my room. But I’m so drunk, I can barely remember a thing about it, just the awkwardness of finding him asleep beside me when the sun comes up. Sober, we pretend that nothing happened.

  Mornings, we fuel up on gasoline and coffee and hit the road. The drives are long. We live on fast food at the rest stops, pizza or burgers and fries, donuts and tacos. It leaves us feeling sick to our stomachs and still hungry at the same time. We’re hungover, too. Or I am, at least. My skin hurts. I sip on a Coke to ease the nausea. After lunch, I close my eyes and try to take a nap as we drive and drive.

  Coming into Philly, we hear the intro to Charlotte’s single on the radio. We all sit up, get quiet, and listen. She sounds great, and the song is catchy and clever, but nobody else is playing it, evidently, and it turns out her record company has already dropped her. We find that out at our gig in New York City when nobody from her label shows up, and it explains a lot.

  Including the new one, Charlotte’s made three records for her label. She tells us the second didn’t sell as well as the first, so the marketing department assumed this one would do nothing. They’ve spent hardly anything on advertising or radio promotion this time around. They’re cutting their losses.

  I remember being in the studio, in the original 1992. We were mixing my second record when I heard the news that Charlotte had been dropped. I’m sorry to say that my first reaction was: Better her than me.

  “You only get so many chances,” Charlotte says. “It’s just the way it is.” She seems to know it and accept it. But I think it’s a shame; the new record is really good. It could be the one.

  The Philly DJ back-announces her song and we cheer when he says her name. He mentions our show at the Tin Angel and tells his listeners what time they should tune in to hear Charlotte live. The rest of us have the afternoon off while she goes to the radio station to talk about the new record. Alan says he’s going to take me to get a Philly cheesesteak.

  I look at Charlotte’s profile, her straight nose and strong chin, lit up by sunshine coming through the windshield. I admire the way she’s able to do what she has to do, despite the disappointment. I realize she’s tough because she has to be. I decide never to be mad at her again, no matter how rude she is to me.

  Fifty-two

  How are you, Minnow?” I call you every day.

  “Mom,” you say. “Grandma took me to Petland and we played with the puppies and there was a parrot there that could whistle and say, ‘What’s up doc?’ ”

  “What else is going on? How are things at school?”

  “Fine,” you say, but you want to talk about what you want to talk about. “They had mice and lizards there, too. And snakes. Mom, Grandma says I can get a guinea pig if you say it’s okay.”

  “A guinea pig? Is that like a hamster?” I can’t quite picture it. “We’ll talk about it when I get home.”

  “But, Mom, they are so cute.”

  “Maybe,” I tell you, thinking no way.

  “But, Mom,” you beg. Sweet voice, I miss you so much. In my dreams, you need me and I’m not there; you’re in danger and I can’t get to you.

  My mother gets on the phone.

  “Everything okay?” I ask her.

  “Everything’s fine,” she says. “How’s it going there?”

  In daylight, the Baltimore club looks pretty rough. The walls are painted black and it smells of stale beer. “It’s going great,” I say. I see Charlotte giving me the evil eye. I should be helping with load-in. “I have to go, Ma. Give her a hug and a kiss for me, will you?” In the background, I can hear you still pleading your case for the guinea pig.

  “Take care of yourself,” my mother says. “We’ll see you soon.”

  “Speak to you tomorrow,” I say every day.

  Fifty-three

  We never get to be great friends, but on the last night, Charlotte Winter tells me I’ve worn her down like a mangy stray she’s come to love.

  “Thanks a lot,” I say. I can’t help laughing. I’ll take what I can get. After hearing her play every night, I have a bit of a crush on her.

  The D.C. gig is actually in Arlington, Virginia, at a club called Iota. The owners are feeding us and treating us like family. It’s an early show, so the plan is we’ll start back to New York after we finish. At a long table in the kitchen, we feast on veggie burgers and beer.

  “But you know, you drink too much,” Charlotte says. “I say that as a friend.”

  I’m shocked at this. She’s sipping mint tea. She doesn’t drink at all.

  I don’t think I drink that much. I have one or two before going on to take the edge off. I have a beer, or a glass of wine, during my set. After, I have a few drinks with the guys to be social. I don’t drink more than anyone else in the band. Maybe she says it because I’m stoned, I think. JC and I have smoked a joint, and I’m a little out of it.

  “You get sloppy,” she says.

  I think about the couple of times when, maybe, while I was playing I felt a little too loose, a bit out of control.

  Alan comes to my rescue. “You kicked ass,” he says. “You’ve definitely made some fans on this tour.”

  “I agree,” says Dave.

  “You rocked it,” JC says, sounding more stoned than me.

  “I’m just saying she should go easy on the beer,” Charlotte says. “I didn’t say she wasn’t good.” She lifts her cup of tea in the air. “To you,” she says, and takes a sip.

  “Thanks, guys.” But I don’t touch my beer after that. I can feel her watching me.

  The club is packed when I go on a little while later. It’s only six-thirty. I can’t believe how many people have come out to see us play in daylight. My voice feels strong, my hands and fingers do what they’re supposed to. The sound is good and the crowd is into it. Everything just comes together. I think it’s the best show of the tour.

  During the last song of my set, the boys get onstage. It’s a thrill to have them behind me. They take the song to a whole other level. My heart is lifting right out of my chest. I drop to my knees and let out a wail. Someone in the audience shouts, “Yeah!”

  During Charlotte’s set, I’m out in front, singing along with the rest of the crowd, when she calls me up to the stage for her encore. I find a harmony, a third above her melody, and our voices blend as perfectly as blue and yellow make green. The crowd is on its feet and the band is rockin’. Charlotte smiles at me and I feel so high, I think, Who needs alcohol when there is music?

  After the show, Neal settles up and herds us all out to the van. We load up and hit the road. Driving back, we’re quieter than usual. Neal forgets to turn on the radio. We’re looking forward to getting home and sleeping in our own beds. All I can think about is how much I miss you and that soon I’ll get to see your face. I can’t wait to tell you that I’ve thought it over and don’t know a single reason why we shouldn’t add a guinea pig to our family.

  Fifty-four

  Mom,” you say. “Listen to this one.” You’re in a silly mood, feeling giddy. You tell me a joke, and when I don’t get it, you try to explain why it’s funny through hysterical giggles. You’re holding Z in your arms, the first of the guinea pigs. Turns out guinea pigs are social animals, so shortly after we brought Z home, we got Cinnamon to keep her company. A year has passed since we adopted the two of them.

  “I’m sorry. I still don’t get it,” I say about the joke, and you give me a look that seems to say: That’s because you’re old. But I don’t mind. You’ve been having a hard time lately and I’m happy to see you laugh and smile.

  We go to Ray’s, the pizza place on the corner, and I tell you about the time I came here when I was pregnant and had just seen the first-ever picture of you. You interrupt me to say, “I know, Mom. You’ve told me this a million times already.”

  “No, I haven’t, not a million,” I say.

  “Mom, it’s boring.” You’ve become a teenager at twelve.

 
When we get home I notice that Kiki is not doing well. You’re already dealing with a lot by then. You’ve just started the eighth grade at a private school Gabriel insisted was the best. You miss your friends and are having a hard time adjusting.

  All the way to the animal hospital, you beg the taxi driver to go faster. Kiki is weak and thin. She hasn’t been eating, not even the tasty bits of tuna we held beneath her nose. An hour after we bring her in, she’s gone. We stroke her side and say her name as the veterinarian administers an injection to end her life.

  After, you sob, your arms wrapped around my neck. “Why, Mom?” you ask.

  “She was very sick,” I tell you gently. “But she had a good life and she’s not suffering anymore.” It’s all I can do not to break down myself.

  We hold hands on the way home. For a few hours, you become my baby again.

  Fifty-five

  Before we’ve even had a chance to mourn Kiki’s passing, Hector calls with the news that Maria has suffered a stroke. Tragedies seem to come in bunches, Minnow. I don’t know why it’s true.

  We go to visit Maria on the Upper East Side, at the hospital where you were born. She’s already been there a week, and Hector says she’s doing better.

  You hand him the flowers we’ve brought and he thanks us for coming. “Where’s Maria?” you ask.

  “She’s with a physical therapist,” Hector says. “He’s got her up and walking.”

  This sounds encouraging, so we’re shocked to see her when she’s brought back to the room and helped into bed.

  Maria seems to be paralyzed on her left side. Her mouth drags down and her eye doesn’t blink. Her arm hangs at her side. Hector lifts it at the elbow and arranges it in her lap. He adjusts her pillows to make her more comfortable.

  Thankfully, though her voice is weak, she can still speak, and she says, “Minnow, it’s so nice of you to come visit me. Ven acá. Sit. Hector, get a chair for Lisa.”