Beyond the Song

by Carol Selick

  Randy put down my bags and asked, “Write down your address, Carol, okay? I’d like to see you again.”

  “Sure, I don’t know how long I’ll be here, but I’d like to see you, too.”

  “You will! Do you like cats?”

  “Yes!” I called to him as he ran down the stairs.

  I wasn’t the only student from GWU who’d heard about Mark’s sublet. It seemed that word got out to everyone at school. I’d left Washington, but Washington hadn’t left me. Our apartment became the crash pad for GWU. The living room and bedroom floors were covered with wall-to-wall sleeping bags. Mark and I were the only ones who slept on beds since we were the only ones paying the rent. There was a constant stream of hippies, frat boys, and even a pet raccoon for a few days. At night it was a zoo, but during the day the troops rolled up their sleeping bags and put them against the walls as they explored the Bay Area.

  I looked forward to the early afternoons when I could grab a nap or wait for Randy’s visits. A few days after dropping me off he’d showed up with two housewarming gifts: an adorable, six-toed calico kitten, and a bag of white powder. I kept the kitten and named her Orinda, after a town we’d passed on our drive from the airport.

  True to his name, Randy Loveman was a great lover. Of course, our lovemaking was intensified by the lines of white powder we inhaled right before it. I could get used to this, I thought one lazy afternoon as we lay together coming off our highs. I knew we’d never be a couple. Randy casually mentioned he was living with his girlfriend in Sausalito, but that they had an open relationship. I was cool with it. I wasn’t ready for anything heavy.

  Still, Randy was more than just a pleasurable experience. He made me feel sexy and desired and was good for my bruised ego. Joshua and Michael’s break-ups had left me with a deep wound that reached inside my very soul. Randy was sweet and fun, but I still needed to prove to myself that I was attractive to more than one guy. After all, I was in Bezerkley! A crazy good place to meet hippie guys who were looking for chicks to hook up with.

  I spent most of my days just walking around town. I especially liked checking out Cody’s bookstore on Telegraph. The cool guys hung out in the New Age section, and I spent a lot of time skimming through books on past lives, yogis, and astrology, and otherwise sampling the inventory. Faces, first names, body parts—I sampled many I met at Cody’s, and anywhere else my loneliness led me to wander. Yet while all this male attention made me feel more attractive and desirable, it still was not enough to fill my emotional emptiness.

  One afternoon I was daydreaming at Cody’s, making a mental list of books I’d buy as soon as I got a job and had some money when some lyrics popped into my head:

  When I get the urge to buy a brand-new pair of shoes,

  I count up all my money, I know that I can’t lose.

  And when I get the urge to get my hair done up real nice

  I go to my beautician and I pay him his price.

  But when I want a man, you know that is a chore.

  I can’t use my money, I can’t go to the store.

  Meanwhile, the chore of making some money was staring me in the face whenever I opened my eyes from my daydreams. A few times a week, I made a feeble attempt to land an office job. I slicked my dark, thick, frizzed-out hair back in a ponytail and put on my grown-up uniform, one of my mother’s hand-me-down tweed blazers, and a black A-line midi skirt. Then I hitchhiked to the business district in downtown San Francisco. The interviews always came down the same. Some suit behind a desk looked over my application and said, “You haven’t lived here long enough. How do we know you’re not a transient?”

  It was a Catch-22: I couldn’t get a job if I didn’t already live here. But how could I stay if I didn’t have a job? I guess part of me didn’t give a shit. I didn’t want to be working in the straight world. No skirt or pantyhose could cover up who I was, another spaced-out East Coast chick checking out the California scene.

  What I really wanted to do was my music, but that wasn’t easy to break into either. A week after I got to Berkeley, I’d auditioned for a band in San Francisco in an old rundown boarding house. Waiting in the dingy hallway with a few other hopefuls, I’d felt confident as I listened to the soulful sounds of an organ coming from behind the closed door down the hall. I knew I could sing and was determined to make some money to stay in California.

  Finally, the door opened. A Janis Joplin wannabe sauntered out and said, “I nailed it. Your turn.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I said as I headed to the door. A tall black guy with a big afro stood up from behind the organ and motioned me in. He was wearing a colorfully patterned Dashiki, and looked a little older, somewhere in his thirties. He gave me a warm smile and asked me what song I was singing.

  “‘Summertime’ in C minor,”

  “Cool,” he said, and handed me the microphone. He started to play and I belted out the song, trying to sing above the organ. After the first verse and chorus, he stopped.

  “You have possibilities, but you haven’t reached your potential. I don’t think you’re ready for my project. You have a good voice but you need more training. Keep on it.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I said and shook his hand. I hated to admit it, but I knew he was right. Maybe I’d been a little too confident. I’d always been able to slide by on the power of my voice but I’d have to be more disciplined if I wanted to make it. But first, I’d have to go back to looking for a job in the boring straight world.

  Just when my fragile ego was starting to mend, I got a letter from Melanie about Joshua that triggered all my old insecurities.

  Joshua plans to go to Philadelphia with ego-boost security chick. What can I say, Carol? I have to tell you this shit, but who knows? Maybe he really loves you and isn’t ready yet. Can I give you my interpretation? It isn’t pretty, but you have turned Joshua into a man-god and it seems he’s still a little boy. Your relationship was too equal. You both helped each other and shared with each other. It seems that Joshua feels that’s too heavy. He needs a girl’s (mother’s) undying approval and awe—especially with his sexual ability. When will he learn that there is no ability in sex? It is only the joy in giving. I think he knows his fuck-ups and is treating them. Carol, you’ve grown into a woman, but he’s still a boy-man.

  Melanie’s letter sent me into a tailspin. I ripped it up, ran out the door to the bookstore, and went home with the first guy who smiled at me. This was the second guy I’d slept with this week. His name was Steve something. After sex, he’d asked me why I was crying. I shook my head and turned away. I knew why. I felt hollow and lonely and disconnected. Instead of intimacy, I felt distance.

  The next morning, I opened my eyes and looked at the naked body lying next to me. For a minute I didn’t know where I was. How did I get here? I quickly pulled on my t-shirt, scooped up my jeans from the floor, and wriggled into them. I grabbed my Indian print bag and tiptoed into the bathroom.

  I looked in the bathroom mirror and dragged a brush through my tangled-up hair. I didn’t have to look at my watch to know what time it was—time to get real. With no job, no band, no place to live after the summer, no love, there would be no future for me here. For the next couple of days my head was full of “I-told-you so’s,” but I finally swallowed my pride. I made the phone call I knew my parents were expecting and asked them to book me a one-way ticket back to Jersey. I made a quick stop at the free clinic to make sure I didn’t have VD or any other scary diseases and started packing my bags.

  I couldn’t leave Orinda without a home, so I stuck her in a canvas knapsack, gave her a quarter of a Dramamine, and hoped no one would notice how the sack was wiggling around. I got off the plane with one very unhappy kitten. My father was even more unhappy about having a pet, so I hatched a plan with Nina, who was staying at her mother’s house to save money until she could afford her own place. Her mom loved cats, so
I took Orinda over to show her to Nina. She was so adorable with her little spotted face and kittenish ways that Nina’s mom fell in love and agreed to adopt her right away. I could even play with her as much as I wanted since Nina’s mom lived just a few blocks from my parents.

  My parents bent over backward to make me feel comfortable. They knew it would take some time for me to figure out my next move. They put a bed and dresser in the spare room downstairs so I could have some privacy and unhappily agreed to let me smoke.

  I wrote Randy a letter to give him my new phone number and address, but I never thought I’d hear from him. One lonely Saturday night about a week later, I was slouched on my parents’ couch smoking cigarettes and eating pretzels, watching the Miss America contest, and feeling like a total loser, when the phone rang. My parents were out, so I picked it up.

  “Carol, how are you?”

  At first, I didn’t recognize the voice on the other end.

  “It’s Randy.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears! A reminder of the life I’d left behind.

  “I found you a place! It’s in Marin, an apartment on the lower level of a lighthouse! Isn’t that cool? It’d be perfect for you!”

  “Randy, didn’t you read my letter? I’m in Jersey. I’d love to live there, but I’m stuck here for now.”

  “Bummer! Okay, Miss New Jersey. Let me know when you’re ready to come back to sunny CA.”

  “I will,” I promised. “Oh, and I brought Orinda with me,” I added. But he’d already hung up the phone.

  12

  HONEY, LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL

  In the morning when I look into your eyes,

  Country sun is dawning, reflecting city skies.

  Singin’, “Honey, let the good times roll,

  Honey, let the good times roll,

  Merrily rolling inside my soul!”

  For nine long months, I lived with my parents and worked as a substitute teacher and part-time salesgirl at Sears. It all paid off in July when I was finally able to move out and Nina and I began sharing Marvin’s apartment on West 72nd. The first thing we did was put curtains up in the front bay window. No more parading around nude, like I did with Marvin!

  The bedroom was a narrow rectangle with a double and a single bed. It also had a tv and was the only room with an air conditioner. To escape the summer heat, I spent my nights watching I Love Lucy reruns. I was in a dry spell and feeling bummed out that I hadn’t met anyone in New York.

  “I won’t need the double,” I told Nina. “Nothing’s happening for me in the romance department.” How could I predict that two weeks later, my ex- roommate’s older brother would move to the city and blow my mind? Marsha’s brother Robbie was subletting an apartment downtown for the summer to work as an assistant still photographer for a movie being shot in New York. Marsha suggested I give him a call.

  We met for dinner at a health food restaurant in the Village. “You’re hardly eating, Carol. Don’t you like your stir fry?”

  “It’s okay. I have this neurotic thing about eating out, especially when I’m nervous.”

  “It’s cool with me. I love to cook. You can come over to my place. I’ll just put the food on the table and you can eat it whenever you want.”

  “Thanks for not making me feel weird about it. I’m seeing a shrink. He thinks he can help me.”

  From that night on we were inseparable. Robbie had been on his way to a commune in Virginia when he got the offer for the movie job. His father had connections and Robbie figured he could earn some money, then drop out later and live on the commune. He had the soul of a country boy even though he grew up in Westchester, not far from the city, and went to college in Chicago. He’d hitchhiked cross-country a few times and loved camping and sleeping under the stars. My idea of camping was staying at a Motel 6.

  Robbie was a strict vegetarian. He was so dedicated he managed to lug a twenty-pound bag of brown rice on the subway from the wholesale health food store downtown to his apartment. He was a good influence on me, but some days I would sneak out to a diner and have a big juicy hamburger with lots of ketchup. Therapy was helping me to be less neurotic about my eating habits.

  Robbie and I were opposites in many ways, but we were both from the same tribe. We both had dark hair, light skin, and greenish-brown eyes. He wore his thick, wavy, shoulder-length hair in a ponytail to keep cool, and he looked cool, too. Sometimes when we made love, I looked up at him and saw myself. It was eerie and seductive. Could I be in love with myself?

  We even joked about it. He called me Howdy Doody and I called him Rooty Kazootie. But his favorite pet name for me was Yoko. Maybe it was because John Lennon and Yoko lived across the street, or maybe because it was fun to say. Who knows? It was part of the world we shared, and that’s all that mattered.

  Some nights I took the downtown bus to 38th Street and walked two blocks west to 10th Avenue. It was an iffy neighborhood, and I felt scared, but nothing could stop me from spending the night with Robbie. His sublet was on the tenth floor of a low-income high-rise and the bedroom had a full wall of windows. After midnight the city quieted down and we were in our own little world. Making love to him and staring at the bright stars and the inky blue sky was what I lived for. It was the only time I felt like I belonged in this city of infinite possibilities. No one cared what you did. You could be anyone you wanted to be or slip into anonymity.

  We were in bed at Robbie’s one night when he brought out his camera and asked if he could take some nude photos. At first, I felt shy and uptight. He suggested we smoke a joint to relax. I started to get into it, but it wasn’t the pot that did it. It was his desire for me. I could feel it coming through the lens. When I looked up at him it was as if the camera and his eyes were one. I’d never felt so sexy and adored. When he stopped, we were both so turned on we made love over and over again until we collapsed in each other’s arms and fell asleep just as dawn blushed the horizon.

  “New York has the best and worst of everything. It’s a matter of where your head’s at, Carol.” I was in Bruce’s office trying to make sense of my new relationship.

  “Problem is, I don’t know where my head is at, but I do know where my heart is. I’m falling in love with that guy I told you about last week.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I feel so peaceful when I’m with him. He gets me. He doesn’t care if I can’t eat out in restaurants. The only problem is sometimes I can’t have an orgasm. I feel myself holding back.”

  “Are you afraid of being hurt again?”

  “I don’t know. It feels more like I’m so into the closeness that I don’t need the orgasm, or maybe I have performance anxiety.”

  “You mean, you can’t let go?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You told me that when your roommates got raped, you felt angry that one of their friends said he could handle things. Then he opened the door without the chain on. “Do you think that could be part of why you have difficulty trusting men?”

  “Hmm. . . .” I took a long drag on my last cigarette in the pack. I hadn’t planned on telling Bruce about the rape so soon, but in our last session, I’d felt a strong need to talk about it. “So you’re saying it’s a control issue?”

  “Could be. What’s more vulnerable than having an orgasm?”

  “I am afraid of losing myself and just living for him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t want to give up on my dreams.”

  “Isn’t that why you came to New York? What are you doing about your music?”

  “I rented a piano. I might play at an open audition at an uptown club next week.”

  I took another drag on my cigarette, remembering the day the piano got delivered. They’d put it on a crane and hoisted it through the living room window. Only in New York! I immediately sat down and started p
laying “Home Again,” and it was true. Accompanying myself on my very own piano, I felt like I was home—home to my music. I looked out the bay window framed by tie-dyed curtains, just like the ones on Carole King’s Tapestry. It was dusk and the city had a hazy pink glow. I was where I belonged. I was finally living my dream.

  It was as if Bruce could read my mind. “When you walked in here that first day, you had a light around you,” he said. “If you worked at it, who knows what could happen?”

  I took a minute to catch my breath. I felt flattered and a little embarrassed that Bruce thought so highly of me.

  “That’s mind-blowing. I want to be famous but I want to be able to enjoy it.”

  “You know what they say—‘Once you make it in the Big Apple, everything else is applesauce.’”

  When I got home I found a note from Robbie that made me smile.

  Yoko,

  Going to Din-Din with my father and then on to film preview. Will be back here afterwards. Probably around 10:30. I’ll see you later.

  Love & butterfly kisses,

  Robbie

  P.S. Karate man called. Says restaurant below him wants to try you out as a waitress if interested.

  Robbie was sweet, but Karate man, whoever he was, would have to wait. Besides I didn’t want to be a waitress. I sat down at the piano and started playing around with some melodies as I thought about Robbie. It was time to trade in my blues and let the good times roll.

  The summer rolled along. I got a job in a health food store not too far from Bruce’s office and Robbie worked on his movie. Nina was out so much that I couldn’t keep up with her comings and goings. She’d met a shoe salesman down the street and was spending a lot of time at his West Village apartment, enjoying the summer as she waited to get into grad school

  Robbie was spending most of his nights at our place. Some nights he’d play his flute and I would play the piano. I even started to write a new song: