Beyond the Song

by Carol Selick

  Peter and Frank are good musicians, I thought, listening. Their songs have strong hooks and are probably commercial enough to get on the radio. I was trying to convince myself I could be part of their music even though “commercial” was far from my style.

  “What do you think Carol? Are you feeling it?”

  “Yeah! You guys sound great!”

  Peter handed me a stack of lyrics with a big smile, “You’re in! Welcome to City Beats!”

  It was official. I made the band! I hadn’t really lied, I just didn’t tell the whole truth. And maybe this was the change I was looking for. A music project to get my mind off Robbie and change my blues to a major key.

  Going back to Manhattan I was tempted to hitchhike, but knew it was too dangerous. It was one thing to hitch a ride in California where everyone did it, and another to do it in New York. Even in California, I’d had some close calls. I waited twenty minutes for the bus and vowed to work harder in therapy to get over my subway phobia.

  “What’s the worst thing that could happen if you’re on the subway?” Bruce asked at our next session.

  “What if I can’t breathe, or the train stops and I never get out?”

  “Let’s break it down. It’s true, sometimes the air in the subway feels heavy, but there is air, and if you take a deep breath and close your eyes, that feeling will pass. Everyone else is breathing. And sometimes the subway indeed stops for a few minutes, but it always starts again.”

  “I guess, but the way I feel isn’t logical.”

  “There will come a point when your desire to get somewhere outweighs your need to be scared.”

  “I get what you’re saying. Last week, I went to the Whitney and saw this short film that was like that. A girl about my age was sitting in a chair, staring blankly into the camera. She looked like a character in a Warhol film. You know—straight dark hair with severe bangs and dark eyes with hollows underneath. But it wasn’t how she looked, it was what she was saying that got to me. First, she listed all the things she needed: food, a place to live, love, friends, freedom, etc. The list went on and on for about ten minutes. Then she listed all the things she wanted: a big apartment, money, fame, nice clothes, etc. It made me think about the difference between wants and needs.”

  “What do you want, Carol?”

  “I want to be understood. I want someone to accept me. I want love and I want my music to be on the radio. There, I said it. I want love and fame. I want it all!”

  “What do you need?”

  “I need to be free from my hang-ups!”

  “How about free from your parents?”

  “What do you mean? I don’t live with them.”

  “You don’t have to—they’re still living in your head.”

  “Yeah! It’s like there’s this imaginary cord that’s pulling me to them. Like an umbilical cord.” I inhaled deeply and let this thought sink in. “Yeah,” I said, exhaling. “I need to cut the cord.”

  “Recognizing it’s there is an important step. You have a lot to think about. Whatever you do, don’t hitchhike in Brooklyn. See you in a few days.”

  “Okay, I promise.”

  I kept my promise and continued to take buses to Brooklyn. Everyone was in their own little world and no one cared what I was doing. I worked on memorizing lyrics and singing the songs in my head during the long rides. Rehearsals were going well and Peter and Frank seemed like nice, normal guys—for musicians, that is. The songs were upbeat, catchy, and commercial. Let’s face it, I told myself. They’re fluff, light-weight, bubble-gum rock, but that’s what’s selling. I can use The City Beats to break into the business and do my heavy women’s blue thing down the road.

  We taped some practice sessions for Peter to play for his manager. Right away, he requested a private meeting with me at a midtown bar near the theater district. I was psyched and nervous as I walked into the dimly lit, upscale room with its heavy wooden furniture and Tiffany-style lamps. As my eyes adjusted to the smoky darkness, I spotted a man in a corner booth waving me over to his table. Mark Leonard, whose real name must have been Mario Leonardo, appeared to be in his early forties and was a few inches shorter than me. His dark, dyed hair fell just below his ears in a Beatle cut, not exactly flattering for someone his age. From his designer jeans to his half-buttoned paisley shirt to his hairy chest and gold chains, everything about him screamed I’m trying too hard to be young and hip.

  He laid on the compliments as I sipped my ginger ale and smoked a cigarette, trying to keep an open mind.

  “You’re very talented, Carol,” he began. “I’m working on getting The City Beats a record deal—they’re good, even if I’m not crazy about the name. But you, Carol, you’ve got something really special. I could make you a star. You think you could handle it?”

  I’d told Bruce I wanted it all. Could it really be happening?

  Mark slid his hand over my wrist, making the expected move. I took a drag on my cigarette and tried to look cool and aloof.

  “I don’t know. I guess. Doesn’t every singer want to be famous?”

  “Your wish is my command, Carol. Are you free Saturday night?”

  I’d promised myself a million times I’d never sleep my way to the top. But still, I wanted so badly to believe he could make me a star that I gave Mark my number and left on a high from the pedestal he’d put me on. At the same time, I was also dreading what he’d probably expect in return. I was so full of nervous energy that I walked the whole thirty blocks back to my apartment, chastising myself all the way for giving him my number and agreeing to see him.

  Along the way, I suddenly remembered the summer I’d worked at a hip little record store in New Brunswick owned by Guy DeLuca, who’d started an independent jazz label. He was in his fifties and very worldly. One slow afternoon, we got talking about women making it in the music business.

  “Would you ever have sex with someone to get a record deal?” he asked.

  “I would never sleep my way to the top!” I answered indignantly.

  “Too bad, kid, that’s how most women do it. There’s too much competition out there.”

  At the time, I was too naïve to think he was coming on to me. I simply didn’t want to hear it. Now here I was, telling myself I could handle a date with a sleazy manager and not sell my soul.

  I spent the rest of the week hoping I hadn’t made a deal with the devil. As I gathered the courage to knock on my new agent’s door in a modern high rise on East 87th, I hoped that Guy DeLuca had been wrong.

  “Come in, Carol,” Mark said, looking even more duded-up than when I’d first met him. He was wearing an op-art polyester shirt, open halfway down his hairy chest, bell-bottoms, and snakeskin cowboy boots. All I could think was, Yuck!

  “Let me show you what success looks like, Carol.”

  I walked into a sterile, boxy apartment with white walls, low ceilings, and a fake fireplace. But what caught my eyes was the real deal—a row of gold records hanging over the mantel. Mark motioned me towards the balcony and I started to feel even more nervous.

  The view from the 29th floor was dizzying. “This is what the view from the top looks like, Carol,” Mark did his best to give me a meaningful look. Leaning in a little closer, he whispered in my ear, “It’s all waiting for you if you make the right moves.”

  Clearly, he is making all the wrong moves,” I thought, as he took my hand and led me to the couch, following a classic, sleazy old scenario. When he sidled up close and started playing with my hair, I knew I had to get out before it was too late.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I stood up and announced. “I like working with the band and I’m sure you’re a good manager, but I’m not looking for anything else.”

  Mark stood too and put both hands on my shoulders. “Carol, if you walk out that door, you’ll be making the biggest mistake of your life,” he said
, staring up at me.

  I grabbed my coat and ran. Maybe he was right, but I swore to prove him wrong. The next day I quit the band. Getting to Brooklyn was a hassle and the music we were playing wasn’t my thing. I might have lost an opportunity, but I know for sure I kept my self-respect.

  15

  DRIFTING

  I don’t want to be nobody’s woman, don’t want to call no one my man.

  I don’t want to fit in with your rhythm, don’t want to be part of your plan.

  If you see my eyes a-smiling, if you brush up against my hair,

  If you hear my heart a-sighing, it still don’t mean I care.

  Nina had moved out in September. She was going to Columbia grad school and had found a room in a pre-war, three-bedroom West End apartment with two other grad students. She was getting her Masters in Political Science and then planned to get a job as a community organizer. I hadn’t seen her in almost a month and was looking forward to meeting for lunch on Columbus Day at a Jewish deli near her new place.

  “I never see you!” I said, hugging her.

  “Are you able to manage the rent by yourself?” Nina asked as we walked toward a booth at the rear of the restaurant.

  “Yeah, I’m still working at the health food store and my parents are paying for therapy. But I have mixed feelings about living by myself. I feel more independent, and if I want to get up in the middle of the night to write a song, I can, but it’s lonely.”

  “I know. How’s therapy going?”

  “I can actually have lunch with you! Let’s order, I’m starving.” We ordered two cups of matzah ball soup and a corn beef sandwich to split. Nina nodded her chin towards a table nearby.

  “Look at those two old yentas talking and laughing. That’s gonna be us someday.”

  “Oy! They do kinda look like us—you could be the one with the dyed red hair and I’d be the one with the wild salt and pepper mop!”

  Just then, the waitress went over to their table. “What’ll it be, ladies?” she asked. The redhead pointed toward us and smiled. “What are they having?”

  Nina and I burst out laughing. By the time we stopped, her face was bright red and I was gasping for air. I’d never laughed with anyone like I laughed with Nina. I’d often go home with her after class in high school. Nina’s mom was an ardent traveler who spent little time on housework. Her house was the direct opposite of mine: brochures and magazines piled on the living room coffee table, souvenirs from exotic places scattered about, brightly woven Mexican blankets slung over the couch, and hand-woven baskets overflowing with newspapers. Best of all, I felt free and accepted as soon as I walked in the door.

  Not surprisingly, our mothers were as different as their houses. Mine was finicky and organized and made sure that every object had its place. Hard-working but very rigid, she banned all clutter from the house, which she’d beautifully decorated with French Provincial furniture that my father bought wholesale in New York. My father, who toyed with becoming a part-time artist, had even painted a mural of an 18th-century French countryside on one of the living room walls, but our house still had a sterile vibe. Nina appreciated the uncluttered feeling and told me she felt calmer there.

  Nina’s mother was divorced and raising Nina and her younger sister on her own. She worked all day and didn’t have time to sweat the small stuff. She was an avid reader, worldly, and a lover of the arts. Ahead of her time, she was into things like health food, yoga, and Adele Davis before anyone else I knew had even heard of them. Her philosophy was “live and let live,” and the vibe in her house was “do your own thing.” Dinner at Nina’s always featured a wide variety of exotic foods with interesting textures and tastes: avocados, hummus, pomegranates, falafels. Of course, my definition of exotic was something that you didn’t have to put ketchup or mayonnaise on.

  “What’s happening in the man department?” Nina asked, looking up from her steaming soup.

  “I met a guy at the park the other day. He lives down the block and is some kind of artist. I could use a friend, but I don’t know if that’s all he wants.”

  “Are you attracted?”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready to be with anyone new. I don’t trust myself and I don’t want to get hurt again.”

  “That’s a no! But I get what you mean. I met this Latin musician in a club a few weeks ago. He sings and plays the congas.”

  “You mean like Ricky Ricardo? Let’s hear the spicy stuff, Senorita!”

  “That’s your favorite show, not mine.” Nina bit into a big sour pickle. This is gonna be juicy! I thought.

  “Anyway, he was short, dark, and handsome, and really good with his hands. The first time we did it, it was behind the bar after the club closed. It was hot!”

  “Far out! Did you see him again?”

  “Once. I went back to the club and we had a repeat performance. Then I realized it meant nothing. I want more than a diversion.”

  “At least it’s a step up from that shoe salesman you met at Tip Top Shoes last month.”

  “You mean the one whose girlfriend climbed up the fire escape and tried to break into his apartment to kill me?”

  I shook my head yes, and we both started laughing. I’m so lucky I have Nina to laugh with about our man trips, I thought as I bit into my overstuffed corn beef sandwich.

  “Maybe I will sleep with that artist down the street. I’ve got to get over Robbie, but I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love again.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s what you said before you met Robbie. Is Marvin ever coming back from California?”

  “He called last week. He’s in love with a woman there and is taking a temporary legal job in L.A. or something. I can stay in the apartment for at least another year!”

  “Cool! He was a really lucky connection.”

  “I know. I was on the corner of 72nd and Going Nowhere. He turned me on to Bruce, too.”

  “You do seem better,” Nina smiled, eyeing the slim remnants of my sandwich.

  “I have my good days. This is one of them.”

  Later that day, I gave my neighborhood artist a call. “Hi Tom, it’s Carol. We met in the park the other day. Wanna hang out?”

  “Sure. Meet me at the entrance of the park in twenty minutes. I’ll bring my charcoals. I’d like to draw you.” I felt flattered that he sounded so enthusiastic. Did he want a friend or a lover? Or maybe just a model? It was a beginning, but the details were still a little sketchy.

  The sketches Tom did of me blew me away, and we were soon hanging out together. Cute, with a cherub-like face and frizzy, shoulder-length light brown hair, he was a sensitive, artistic type who tried to hide behind a macho exterior, but his army jacket and hiking boots didn’t fool me. The best part was that he lived just one block down the street, between Columbus and Amsterdam.

  Tom made his living as a commercial artist, but he had unusual talent and a very gifted eye. The sketches he’d made definitely looked like me, but they had an ethereal quality. I fantasized about asking him do my album cover if I ever got a record deal. What I wasn’t fantasizing about was sleeping with him. I liked him as a friend but didn’t feel any chemistry.

  Tom was a year younger than me but somehow seemed immature. I assumed he didn’t feel the chemistry either, since he never came on to me, but he was a Scorpio and hard to read. Besides, from what I’d heard, Scorpios and Geminis weren’t a good match.

  One Saturday night while we were eating Chinese take-out at my place, he confessed that he’d only slept with two women. One was a one-night stand at a St. Patrick’s Day party in college when he’d drunk too many green beers. The other was his ex-girlfriend Lauren. She was a nude model in one of his drawing classes at Pratt, and he was the lucky artist who got to bring out her other dimensions.

  After six months, he couldn’t stand the idea of everyone else seeing what he felt belonged
to him, and he insisted that she quit her modeling gig. Typical possessive Scorpio, I thought to myself. I didn’t dare say anything to Tom, though. He felt bad enough. Predictably, Lauren had told him to hit the road. No man was going to tell her when and where to take off her clothes. I secretly admired her for that!

  I liked spending time at Tom’s. It was a large studio facing the street, which had a good amount of light coming in through the two windows. He’d managed to use every inch of space, building a loft bed and setting up his wooden drawing table beneath it. Instead of a couch, he had a brown, imitation suede bean-bag chair and colorful pillows strewn on the floor. The bed reminded me of Michael’s loft back in Arlington. That seemed like a lifetime ago.

  It was a rainy Friday night and I was at Tom’s, smoking weed and listening to Miles Davis’s Kind of Blue. Tom was showing off the new stereo components he’d just put together and wanted to turn me on to jazz, which I knew very little about.

  “It’s relaxing and intense at the same time,” I mumbled through half-closed lips, taking another toke.

  “Yeah, it’s his best album. Can you believe it came out in 1959?”

  “That old? Wow—it’s still out there!”

  I struggled out of the bean bag chair and walked over to the window. Half-tranced, I stood there for a while, listening to the rain. It sounded like a dozen drummers were jamming up on the roof. “It’s really coming down. I feel wasted, but I should go.”

  “Why don’t you crash here? Then you don’t have to get soaked.”

  It seemed like an innocent invitation, and I was too stoned and tired to disagree.

  “Cool. I can barely move and it’s really coming down hard. Where should I sleep?”

  “With me. It’s a double bed, there’s room.”

  “Can I borrow some toothpaste?” I’d been through the toothpaste-on-my-finger routine more than once. What I should have asked was, Can I borrow some common sense?

  When I came out of the bathroom, Tom was already in bed. I took off my bell bottoms and climbed the steps to the loft in my t-shirt and panties. I’d just gotten under the covers when I felt Tom’s hands on my breast and crotch. My whole body instinctively stiffened. For a moment I lay there frozen, like a bug who knows it’s going to get caught but still is weighing its options.