by Carol Selick
“I’ve worked for him.”
“Are you a musician?”
“No, a roadie.”
“Wow! What’s he like? I’d love to meet him. I’m a singer.”
“I only worked for him a few times. He seemed nice but I didn’t get to talk to him. Yoko’s always around and she kinda guards him.”
“I get that vibe.”
The waitress handed us some grease-stained menus and rolled her eyes when we told her we just wanted coffee. “Two more deadbeats taking up space,” she was probably thinking.
“Do you live in the neighborhood?”
“No. I’m from the Island. My friend lets me crash at his place on 75th on the weekends.”
I thought back to when I was spending every weekend crashing at my friends’ house in South River. Maybe things could work out with David if he was in the city a lot, but then quickly nixed that idea. Even if the sex turned out to be amazing, I didn’t want to put my energy into a relationship right now. Tonight was about two lonely people looking for a hook-up on a Saturday night.
“No boyfriend?” he asked without subtlety.
“No. I like the way you cut to the chase. What about you? Do you have someone?”
“I haven’t had time. I’ve been on the road a lot,” he said and grabbed my hand across the table. “Let’s get out of here. Can I walk you home?”
“Sure.” Am I gonna ask a stranger up to my house at midnight? I wondered as we got closer to my apartment.
“Do you wanna come up and watch Saturday Night Live?”
“Sounds like fun. I’m not ready to say goodbye, Carol.”
Bruce’s voice parachuted me back to reality. “I can tell you’re censoring your thoughts, Carol. Just say whatever comes into your mind.”
“You mean, about that night?”
“If you want to talk about it. Or anything else that pops up.”
I smiled. “Pops up” was a good way to describe what happened with David that night. He “popped up” and stayed that way for hours! I couldn’t decide if he was a sex addict or the best lover I’d ever had. Finally, I’d said, “I’m getting kinda tired. Are you gonna come?”
“I don’t think so. I have a problem.”
Oh great, what have I got myself into? I pulled the sheets over myself and wished I could smoke a cigarette.
“I can stay hard but I can’t come.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Yeah, I keep thinking when I meet the right one, it’ll be different. Some chicks use me.”
“Bummer!”
“Yeah. Most of the time I feel used.”
“Maybe you should see a shrink.”
“I don’t need a shrink. There’s nothing wrong with my head. I need a fuckin’ good lover!” He shouted. He swung out of bed, grabbed his clothes off the floor, and stomped into the hallway bathroom, muttering something under his breath. I started to shake and threw on a t-shirt just in case I had to make a mad dash out of the apartment. My hand was on the phone, ready to call the cops when the apartment door slammed shut. Still shaking, I walked into the living room, sat on the couch, and started to cry. Would I ever learn my lesson and stop living on the edge? Mountain man thought he didn’t need a shrink but I obviously did.
So here I was, lying on Bruce’s couch and not saying the first thing that popped into my head. I wasn’t going to tell him all the details of that night. It was too embarrassing!
Instead, I said, “I wish I had a cigarette. You’re still smoking. It’s not fair!”
“Who said life was fair? Just take some deep breaths and let your mind wander.”
“Okay.” I closed my eyes.
27
WEARY WOMEN’S BLUES
I get up with the sun to start my day.
I know there’s lots of dues I’ve got to pay.
But when the sunlight goes away,
I get those weary women’s blues.
When they call I can’t refuse.
It’s the sad songs that I choose to get me through the day.
Even though I felt lonely, I wasn’t actively looking for love, and I’d sworn off one-night stands after my hippie mountain man fiasco.
“It’s okay to feel sad about being alone,” Bruce said at my Monday night session.
“Why is it so hard for me to be by myself?” I asked, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. Yes, I thought, it definitely looks like a penis.
“Most people have a hard time with it, especially women.”
“Yeah, all the women’s lib stuff can’t keep you warm at night. I started writing a song about it this morning. “Weary Women’s Blues”—How’s that for a title?”
“It’s good you’re expressing your feelings. When you were a child, girls were conditioned to get married and be housewives.”
“Yeah, we’ve been brain-washed.”
“You’ve told me about situations when you were with someone and still felt lonely.”
I winced a little as I thought back to my summer of free love in Berkeley after Joshua broke up with me. Sleeping with guys just to prove I was attractive, crying after sex, not understanding why I felt so hollow and disconnected the next morning. How could something so intimate feel so isolating?
“There were plenty of those,” I said.
Bruce didn’t say a word. As I lay there, the faces of the men I had one-night stands with flashed through my mind like a speeded-up home movie, each face grotesquely morphing into the next.
“In one session you talked about a film you saw that listed needs versus wants.”
“It stuck with me,” I said, grateful to be rescued from the bizarre montage of ex-lovers reeling through my head. I took a deep breath. Oh, for a cigarette!
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know! That’s why I’m here!” I was getting frustrated and asking myself, why was I here? I forced myself to concentrate. “I guess, wanting a relationship is healthy, but needing one never works.”
“You’ve got to get to the root cause of why love isn’t fulfilling,” Bruce said after another long pause.
“That makes sense, but I have no idea.”
“In therapy, you can look at the unconscious desires that fuel some of your needs and take away their power.”
“And if I do that, do you think I can find real love?”
“Only when your wants outnumber your needs.” Bruce’s voice softened, “You won’t always be alone, Carol,” he said.
I sighed and let his comforting words sink in. “You know, the only time I feel understood is when I’m here.”
“But your goal in therapy is to understand yourself.”
“My parents tell me that I’m finding myself. What they really mean is that I’m lost and they’re waiting for the day when I find the road that leads back to them.”
“You’ve been discovering the direction you want your life to go in. Being influenced by your parents and being a reaction to them is not the same thing, Carol.”
“How can I not rebel against them? They’re always trying to control me! They’re always telling me I’m being influenced by my friends. It’s like I was innocently sleeping and a body snatcher turned me into one of my hippie friends!”
“You sound angry.”
“I am! My parents make me feel like I couldn’t possibly make such bad decisions on my own. Not their precious daughter! It’s all my friends’ fault. I’m a sheep just following the herd.”
“You may never be able to convince them, but ultimately you and your parents want the same thing for you.”
“Right, like what?”
“They want you to be happy.”
“Yeah, sure, as long as it’s their definition of happy.”
“That’s not your concern. Only you can know wha
t works for you. Just take care of yourself and don’t worry about what they think.”
“But I feel so fucking guilty!”
“Guilt is a useless emotion. Your parents did the best that they could, but now it’s time for them to let go. You’re an adult, Carol, and can make your own decisions.”
“Right. That’s the scary part!”
I closed my eyes to clear my head, but the dream I’d had that morning came back to haunt me. “I dreamt I was on a bus from New Jersey to the city and there was a string attached from me to my parents’ house,” I told Bruce. “The closer I got to New York, the longer the string got.”
“That’s pretty obvious.”
“I know! My umbilical cord is following me wherever I go and I can’t break loose.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Bruce knew how to calm me down by saying the exact, perfect thing. Damn it! Why did he have to be my therapist? Why couldn’t I have met him on the corner of 72nd or in a bar on Amsterdam?
“Carol?”
“Why does life have to be so complicated!”
“The more mud you clear from your windshield, so to speak, the clearer life will become.”
“It sounds so simple.”
“Believe in the process.”
I wasn’t sure how much I believed in the process, but one thing was true. Talking to Bruce was helping my songwriting. Back at the apartment, I felt inspired to finish “Weary Women’s Blues.”
Then I tell myself I must be strong.
I hear my sisters telling me to carry on.
But I haven’t had a good man in oh, so long.
Just those Weary Women’s Blues.
When they call I’ll just refuse.
No more sad songs will I choose to get me through the day.
I know it won’t be easy.
It takes a lot to please me now,
And a lot of lonely nights to push old dreams away.
But I’m gonna find a way, a way, a way.
28
ROSE MARIE McCOY
Hear me, do not fear me,
’Cause I’m believing in you.
I’m pulling you through
If you want me to.
On Friday when I went to Maxine’s for my voice lesson, an attractive, middle-aged black woman was sitting in the waiting area. She was wearing a red beret and a camel hair poncho with an alligator belt cinching her waist and high-heeled brown leather boots. She looked like someone important. What surprised me was her childlike voice.
“Are you a singer?” she asked, giving me a warm smile.
“Yes, are you?” I answered.
“I used to sing a lot when I was younger, but now I concentrate on my songwriting.”
“I sing and write songs, too.”
“Like Carole King? You look a little like her—your wavy hair and all.”
“She’s one of my favorites.”
“I’d like to hear your songs sometime. Here’s my card.”
Her card was impressive: Rose McCoy, songwriter and producer, 1650 Broadway.
Thanks, Miss McCoy! That would be incredible! I could mail you a demo.”
“You can call me Rose. Why don’t you make an appointment to drop it off in person?”
“That would be great! I’m Carol, Carol Marks.”
Just then Maxine and a pretty, young black teenage girl walked into the hall. I stood up and Maxine introduced me. “Carol, this is Regina Simms. You’ll be hearing her on the radio soon,” Maxine said and winked at Rose. “It looks like you two have already met. Rose is one of the most successful songwriters in New York. She’s producing Regina’s new album.”
I smiled, but I was speechless. Why can’t I say anything? I asked myself. Whenever I got around famous people I clammed up. After Rose and Regina left, I asked Maxine if she knew of any artists who’d recorded Rose’s songs.
“Many,” Maxine paused for a moment. “Let’s see, Nat King Cole, Lenny Welch, and Elvis, to name a few.”
All I could say was, “Amazing!”
Rose is the real deal. She’s practically a living legend! What if I blow it! I thought as Maxine began playing my warm-up exercises.
I started vocalizing but was thoroughly distracted. I was singing La-la, La-la, La-La, La-La, but I was thinking Ro-sie! Ro-sie! Ro-sie!
I read Rose’s business card over and over again on the crosstown bus and was still clutching it when I walked into my apartment. Was she just being polite or was she truly interested in hearing my songs? I obsessed about her all weekend, then on Monday morning I finally got up the courage to call. Rose picked up after three rings,
“Hello?” she said in her little girl voice.
“Hi Rose, I’m Carol Marks. I don’t know if you remember me,” I said nervously. “We met at Maxine Adler’s studio last Friday. You said I could make an appointment to show you some of my songs?”
“Sure, when would you like to come?”
“Friday’s my day off, I could meet you at 3:00 after my voice lesson.”
“That’ll be good. You know the address?”
“You’re at 1650 Broadway?” My heart was pounding so loud, I was sure Rose could hear it on the other end.
“The entrance is on 51st. Just give the guard my name and he’ll let you in.”
“Thanks Rose! See you then.”
I hung up, feeling ecstatic. A famous songwriter was giving me a chance to play my songs for her! I thought back to when I used to ride the bus to the city through the Lincoln Tunnel. I could never stop staring at the dividing line—on one side was boring, conventional, suburban New Jersey, and on the other side was live-out-your-dreams New York City. Could this be my chance? Was meeting Rose my dividing line?
Friday finally came. I mustered up as much confidence as I could, walked into 1650 Broadway, and announced myself to the doorman. I was carrying a fake black leather briefcase bought from a street vendor near Times Square. In it were my demo tape, a practice vocal tape, lyric sheets, and a notebook. The doorman phoned Rose and motioned towards the elevator. Her office was on the eighth floor. The sign on the door read: “Do not come here without an appointment.”
Rose welcomed me warmly and led me into her office. I followed her through a small front room with an old spinet piano that led to a bigger room with a couch, filing cabinets, and a large metal desk. I took a seat on the couch and stared out the windows looking onto 51st Street.
“I have to keep the door locked because people are always trying to hang out here in between appointments,” Rose said, as she took a seat behind her desk. “When I don’t answer, they slip their lyrics under the door. If I stopped every time someone came, I’d never get any work done. So, what do you have for me?”
She opened her top desk drawer and took out a portable tape recorder. I handed her my demo and she put it in the machine. I’d cued the tape to one of my more bluesy songs, “I Wanted To Be Fooled” because it showed off my vocals. I didn’t dare look at Rose while my demo was playing. All around the room photographs of famous singers were looking at me—Nat King Cole, Lenny Welch, and Maxine Brown among them. The demo seemed to go on forever and my insecurities came rushing back to haunt me. Rose stopped the tape in the middle of the second song. “You’ve got potential, Carol. You can really sing and you playing the piano is a plus! We can work on a song together.”
“Thank you, Rose. I would love that.” I was trying to sound professional, but in my head, I was screaming, This is it! My lucky break! I stared at Rose’s BMI and Cash Box Music awards on the wall in front of me and for a moment I let myself imagine being at the Grammy Awards. And the award for song of the year goes to Rose Marie McCoy and Carol Marks!
“How is next Friday around this time? Can you bring some ideas for me then?”
“Absolute
ly!”
As I left the building I saw Tiny Tim walking in. Who knew how many more famous people I’d meet at 1650 Broadway? I had so much energy I walked the whole twenty blocks uptown to my apartment.
The first thing I did when I got home was to open the piano bench to look for song ideas. I found a purple loose-leaf notebook, music sheets, and a few cocktail napkins with hastily scribbled lyrics on them. I put everything from the emptied piano bench on the living room couch and went into the bedroom. Hidden in my underwear drawer under my vintage satin bathrobe lay my half-written journal. I made myself a cup of mint tea and sat on the couch searching for lyrics like a miner digging for gold. One unfinished song caught my eye.
29
LET ME BRING OUT THE ANIMAL IN YOU
The first time I looked at you
I saw another you deep in your eyes.
A wild man acting tame,
Trying hard to break through your disguise.
This is a full moon night and it’s all right—
I’ve got a wild streak in me too.
So don’t hold back, don’t fight it.
You’re so close and I’m so excited.
Give in and let me bring out the animal in you!
Rose had been so warm, so down-to-earth, I wasn’t as nervous when we met the following Friday, but I had no clue what she’d think of my song idea.
“Where’d you come up with that title?” she asked with a chuckle. ‘“Let Me Bring Out the Animal in You’—it’s a little bit dirty!”
“It just popped into my head. It’s about people being uptight.” I couldn’t tell her it was really about a fantasy about seducing my shrink. I took a deep breath and waited to hear Rose’s opinion. And Song of the Year is, “Let Me Bring Out The Animal In You”!
“Okay, let’s give it a try!” she said.
Elated, I sat at the piano and sang Rose part of the melody to the unfinished lyrics I’d written. Then Rose took out a yellow-lined note pad and I sat with my notebook, trying to write down some ideas. Neither one of us said anything for about ten minutes. Then Rose asked, “Can I read you what I’ve got?”
I tried quickly writing down the lines she’d come up with.