“This is a better copy,“ Leather Jacket Guy retorts.
“Better than the CD version you also bought here? You need to get your head checked.” Both of them turn in response to the shop bell and greet me with hey and a raised hand. The guy behind the counter kills the amplitude on the tunes. “Can I help you?” The phone rings, and I motion for him to take care of it first. “Warped Records,” he says into the phone. “You love it, we have it. You hate it, we’ll buy it from you … if it doesn’t suck.”
I snarf in appreciation of the guy’s honesty.
This place is covered to the ceiling in records. Piles more are tucked into the corners. Dear God, are those towers behind that big glass wall in back even more of them? That room looks like hell. Heaven help any poor soul in there when something more than the typical California tremor hits.
The sales clerk ends the call and tosses the phone onto the counter, not noticing as it nearly spins off of the other side and Leather Jacket Guy saves it from death. “Hey, sorry about that. Can I help you?” In contrast to his buddy, his jeans are ripped and his General Public T-shirt is on the loved side of new. Hints of grey poke through his dark curls. He’s got to be in his mid-forties, and Leather Jacket Guy in his thirties. These aren’t punk kids, though in some life-loving way they seem it.
When I meet them at the sales counter, I notice Leather Jacket Guy not only polishes his combat boots, he smells like he bothers to visit the cologne counter instead of grabbing something flashy at Walgreen’s. He’s a twisted version of my kindred spirit.
The clerk leans on the counter while awaiting my question. Leather Jacket Guy pops his butt up on it like he’s at home and as comfortable as can be.
I scratch the back of my neck while in disbelief over how much of a dork I am about to sound to Cusack and his buddy. The customers in High Fidelity got reamed for being clueless, so I may soon be barbecued. “You probably don’t get this much, and it may be out of your realm, but I’m looking for something, and I don’t know what it is.”
Both guys smile. The clerk looks up and nods like he is counting in his head. “Fifth time today a conversation has started like that.”
“Really?” Leather Jacket Guy asks. “Were you sick and opened six hours late or something?”
The clerk shrugs. “There was a My Mother The Car marathon on MeTV.” His eyes return to me. “Got a lyric, a band name … anything to go on?”
“Zip. In fact, it’s not even a song; it’s a genre. Sort of like swanky, old school jazz. Like Martin and Sinatra, only more orchestral. Not big band but … sort of mini-big band.” My chuckle gives away how dumb I feel. “Boy, that sounded lame.”
The two guys look at each other and shrug. Like robotic twins, they walk up behind me and each place a finger on my shoulder. Am I getting the boot for asking something so pedestrian in their safe haven?
With a gentle nudge, I’m pointed to the back of the store, straight to the jazz section. Great, they are mocking me. Seriously guys, I need a sub-genre, not the obvious.
Leather Jacket Guy looks like he isn’t giving his selection a spec of thought as he yanks a CD out of a bin. He takes in the cover, and the smile of seeing a lost friend crosses his face.
“Agreed.” The clerk snatches it and heads off.
Leather Jacket Guy pats my shoulder. “I think we’ve got you covered. By the way, I’m Brandon.” He extends his hand and we shake. “The guy about to put you into bliss is Shane.”
“Dale,” I reply. The sweet harmonies Brandon was previously raving about halt. The CD spins up, and a bopping piano accompanied by a steal-brushed drum wash over me. My head rolls back as the heavenly sound waves draw my eyes upward. “Dear God, yes. What is this?”
Brandon’s eyes spark like those of a little boy enjoying a treasure. “Ellington and Armstrong, The Great Summit. I take it this is close.”
“Dead on! How do you know of this?” Hopefully that didn’t sound rude, but Brandon seems he’d be more comfortable in a punk club than a jazz one.
“Um …” He scratches his nose. His laugh sounds awkward. “It’s my grandfather’s favorite album.”
Ouch! That’s gonna leave a mark. Old or not, this music is brilliant, and Armstrong’s vocals push it over the top.
Shane returns and hands us freshly opened beers. “To Ellington, and the brilliance he brought into the world,” he says. Shane downs his before handing Brandon the bottle. “Wish me luck. There is a stack with more orchestral jazz, or as Ellington liked to think of it, beyond category American Music, somewhere in Vinyl Hell. It’ll thrill the crap out of Rob if I sell them.”
Shane heads into the scary room. “You want help?” I call out.
Brandon is quick to smack his hand onto my chest in warning. “If you even remotely enjoy your life, stay on this side of the glass, regardless of what sounds come from behind that wall.”
I chuckle at how deadly serious he looks. These guys are a trip.
My eyes take in the array of albums tacked onto the walls and a bin of posters looking like it should be at a rummage sale. A glass case glowing with the luminance of a halo draws me toward it. It is filled with every kind of music tchotchke known to man—bubblegum cards, pins, bracelets, lunch boxes, and naturally, a tray of guitar picks. One of them radiates like it is the light source for the entire case. “Is that thing glowing?” I ask.
Brandon’s brow raises at the sight. “Weird. I’ve never noticed that one before.” He yells to the back, “Hey, Shane, where did this glowing pick come from?”
Shane flips through a handful of records as he emerges from the room of death. His curls are tossed about like he tangoed with an electric socket. Just what in Hades is back there? “What glowing one?” he asks.
Brandon and I point to the case. “This one,” we say in sync. Suddenly this experience seems surreal.
Shane peers between us. “Huh. Weird. That’s another of Rob’s legendary estate sale finds. Crap, what was that guy’s name? Benny Goodman … No, no … Glenn Miller.”
My head snaps toward him. “The Glenn Miller? What was he doing with a guitar pick?”
“Wrong legend. This one was a dude from Toronto who got a second shot at fame when his impersonator was murdered. Played for … um … some seventies band.”
Brandon catches the reference. “Chilliwack. Nice pun there.”
I’m totally lost. Who the hell was Chilliwack?
Shane snaps his fingers. “That’s it. Freaky story.”
Yeah, and that glowing pick makes it all the stranger since Jennifer said something about finding a charm. Not two minutes later I got a Glenn Miller song stuck in my head. But how could this possibly be connected to anything? Is the guy who keeps following me Glenn Miller? He looks more like Frank Sinatra than a seventies rock star. “Just how much is the glowing,” and thus possibly haunted, “guitar pick of a murder victim?”
“Two bucks.”
“Two dollars?” I expected to hear something ridiculous. Then again, two dollars is crazy for a piece of plastic.
Or is it? Jennifer sort of implied a charm was the key to my happiness.
Geez, what have I gotten myself into?
“Hey, getting killed should translate to some kind of value.” Shane looks to my beer, which is nearing empty. “Want another?”
Given how twisted this all is, I could use several. “Seems like I should be the one buying you guys drinks.”
Brandon’s dark eyes land on my tie—a wide, blue, vintage gem with swoops of gold and black. “Nah, you’ve got a love of Ellington written all over you. You just needed a nudge. Shane and I take pride in being Grade A nudgers.” He tips his beer to me before taking a sip. “Hey, I know a place you should check out. We’re headed to Mulligan’s after Shane closes. Wanna join us?”
I have no idea what Mulligan’s is, but I sense friendships being born. These guys are gonna keep me on my toes.
It's Only A Paper Moon
The Present
&
nbsp; BAILEY
“Um …” Elsie mutters from across the trailer. “Is this supposed to …”
Dear Lord. What now? I swear this girl could get lost while locked in the monkey cage at the zoo.
“Fire!”
My heart jumps as Elsie races across the trailer and bolts out the door. Crackles drift into my ears. I spin, expecting to see an inferno blazing toward me.
Normal.
Everything looks perfectly normal.
Then I catch the source of her fear—sparks. Itty, bitty sparks confined inside the microwave. This is what she freaked out over?
More crackles fill the air, followed by a pop and a flash. Rattling my head, I walk over and unplug the thing. Elsie was supposed to be melting lipstick. How did that catch on fire?
The mystery is solved when my eyes drift right. Three tubes of lipstick, a knife, a three-hole palette, and two metal pans tell the story. Oh, she didn’t!
This is so ridiculous I can’t even think about it. Jiminy, I don’t have time to think about it. This palette needed to be finished half an hour ago, and if I open the microwave, my poor trailer will reek all day.
In a heartbeat, I’ve snatched my supplies and am headed for the commissary. A hearty sigh huffs out as my feet rapidly thud on the pavement and my mind searches for a bright side.
My soft pink, forties-inspired tea dress sways, bringing cool air up my legs and refreshing my spirit. This little disaster is a great excuse to get fresh air and enjoy a glorious Toronto morning on a lot filled with building façades and racing golf carts. I would also say my circulation could use stimulating, but Elsie’s freak out already jump-started my heart. Besides, I have other things to focus on—like returning fast enough to do Katherine’s makeup. After that, I have trials on a new actress, which need to be done before lunch so I can slip out to the grocery store. If that fails, unless divine intervention shines upon me, I’ll be forced to resort to crappy takeout for dinner again. For the love of God, it’s Thursday. I’ve been trying to shop all week, and I have to work through Saturday.
Lately, all of my meals come with an oil slick. At least the food is so gross it is hard to eat, thus keeping me somewhat trim. Life used to be cozy and filled with dreams of running my own makeup school, and then coming home to a house filled with the laughter of children. Those hopes now seem to be lost in the ether.
Although I haven’t forgotten how fortunate I am to have a great apartment and a solid job, I am haunted by the shadow of how things used to be. Stashing a little cash at the end of each month, while still enjoying luxuries, was never a challenge. I’d give almost anything for a candlelit dinner and a night of Swing dancing so I can pull out my vintage gowns in style again.
As horrible as I feel for questioning the situation, after six months of searching, why is Carlos still jobless? Especially when his technical skills are in demand. When he was first laid off, his eyes told he was demoralized, yet he kept his head high and pushed on. Then he started passing on solid offers, holding out for more money or better benefits. That was fine at first but …
But then something changed, and while I can’t pinpoint what it is, his vibe is off. The last time he said it was a recruiter calling, I caught sight of the caller ID. My eyes may have been playing tricks, but unless his friend, Mandel Werington the firefighter, recently switched professions, or shares his name with a recruiter in Toronto, Carlos was lying.
My internal accusation makes me feel I am belittling his trials, but Carlos must be feeding me a line of bull. Not working, the cushiness of hanging out with the boys, and long weekends fishing at Bob’s cabin sound like a dream. If I had those, motivation to do anything else would be fleeting.
“Yo! Bailey!” Katherine shouts from across the studio street. She pops out her earbuds and runs toward me. The sunlight makes the unnatural beauty of her bouncing, Intense Red Auburn hair, which is heavily coated in red gloss, give the impression her head is smoldering. Katherine’s signature look is completed with bottle green contacts that stand out about as much as her mane does, making her an odd choice to play a lead in a TV show called Vampires Undercover. Her public persona screams more seventies New York rocker than modern Hollywood-type. If I covered my brown eyes like that, I’d look like a freak. It works so well on her though that I feel a little schlumpy around the edges. Her perfect hair is a brutal reminder of how my last dye job has faded to somewhere between the onyx it started as and the mousy brown I’m trying to cover. I really need to pull my life together. “Where are you headed?” she asks.
“The commissary.”
“You do know I’m supposed to be in your trailer in a couple of minutes, right? Please don’t leave me at Elsie’s mercy again.” Katherine’s hands fly into the air with melodramatic flair. “For the love of God, I am begging you not to let that happen.” The inflection of her voice walks a fine line between humor and desperation.
“No way! Your face doesn’t leave this lot until I’m done with it.”
“Oh, thank the Lord.”
I cock my head in the direction I was going, and we begin walking. “I need to make a lip palette. The last time I left full tubes of lipstick with Elsie, they came back looking like she ran over the insides with a snow plow.”
“Color me not shocked. Don’t you have a microwave for that?”
My brain still hurts from that incident. “I did until a few minutes ago. Foolish me didn’t think when I said, ‘melt about a half inch of lipstick for each palette pan’ she would melt it directly into the metal, you know, while in a microwave. My mind reels just thinking about how that thing is going to smell when it’s opened.” My nose crinkles and my lips contort at the memory of accidentally burning popcorn in it. For days on end, everyone who came into my trailer felt ill.
Katherine stops to open the commissary door. One look at my expression puts her into laughter. “Oh my God. The look on your face is awesome!”
I smirk and drop a bomb. “Elsie is your touch-up person for the day.” Katherine’s cringe conjures an image of a snake trying to slither out of her. My resulting chuckle releases the tension in my neck. My shoulders drop, and I suddenly appreciate how small my problems are.
I head straight for the microwave, cut a chunk of lipstick into a glass bowl, plop it in, and hit the start button. “You might be in luck though, because with the way she bolted, she had enough momentum to get her to Mexico. What am I going to do about that girl? I can’t be everywhere at once.”
Katherine moans. “I fear what will happen if all goes to pot today and she needs to do serious work on me. I even fear her blotting my face.” Katherine’s teeth clamp down, and she hisses in air. “Can blotting paper give you a paper cut?”
“Hey Bailey!” Dina, one of the ladies from wardrobe, wildly waves before clutching her purse and sprinting over. I hate that I think this but … Dina is sweet, and I mean her no ill, but five minutes in my chair could do wonders. There isn’t a thing wrong with her, as wearing only powder and lipstick could make anyone look like a ball with lips. However, with her pale skin and robust curves, a ghostly cartoon comes to mind.
She gives my starlet friend a hushed hello and a demure smile before turning to me with her hands flapping, reminding me of a tween at a boy band show. “Since you are single again, I really think you should meet my brother.” Her hands dive into her purse, presumably for a picture. “You two would totally hit it off. I mean, no pressure but—”
I touch her arm and hope my tone conveys it honors me to be considered a candidate for sister-in-law. “Thanks, Dina. I would love to, but I’m not available.”
Her eyes spark, and her voice gains a pitch. “How great you found someone already. When I saw Carlos with that sorry excuse for a replacement, I should have known you were the one who dumped him.”
Carlos? Replacement? My insides become unstable—slowly breaking down and folding over upon themselves. How is it a remote implication of infidelity feels like an assault of truth? This can’t be
right.
My head kicks my twisted gut aside and tries to ignore the panic rushing through my veins. If we have broken up, he’s forgotten to act like it. Still, I feel crumpled and discarded.
Fortunately, Katherine is quick to get in the game and starts baiting Dina for information, giving my head time to process the cascade of emotions. “Where did you run into Carlos?” she asks, sounding ready to rip Carlos a new one. “He didn’t bother you, did he?”
“Oh, he was fine,” Dina says with a wave of her hand. “He came into the Nexus Hotel on the Saturday before last, right after I finished dinner.”
“Two weeks ago?” I ask while trying not to give away how stunned I am. Dina’s head bounces in response. The Nexus is downtown. Not only was he lying about going fishing, he was practically flaunting his escapades. This morning he left for yet another trip. My God, that bastard is cheating!
No, those public actions are too bold. Something doesn’t sound right. Remember, guilty until proven innocent. I mean—
Yeah, that little slip told me I already know the truth. Still, my heart sinks at the thought of his infidelity. I’m worthy of so much better.
“He didn’t ask about Bailey, did he?” Katherine pursues.
Dina’s head jerks toward me. “He is harassing you for dumping him?”
My insides quiver with pangs of enlightenment. No wonder why I have been dancing with concerns over him. I’ve worked so hard for us—given him so much of my heart—only for him to take advantage of me. The realization makes me never want to give another piece of myself to anyone.
Still, what if I am wrong? My gut is generally right, but it’s not like I have never confused indigestion with the stomach flu. The first year Carlos and I were together, as unreal as it seemed, I thought he had forgotten my birthday. All night long I fought bursting into tears, but when my head hit the pillow, instead of finding fluffy softness, something crunched. I was so surprised to find an envelope with two plane tickets to New York, the flutter of a butterfly could have knocked me off balance. I’ve been wrong before.
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