Breaking Fellini
M.E. Purfield
Published by Trash Books at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 M.E. Purfield
All rights reserved.
This is a work of pure fiction.
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Bonus Features:
Alternate Beginning and Scenes
Essay New York and the No Wave
Preview of Party Girl Crashes the Rapture
Track 1 – Phony Perfection
I stand in front of the adoring and drunk crowd of the Iron Crow. Everyone presses to the stage, abandoning the bar and tables, and tries to get as close to us as they can. I grip my Fender Stratocaster guitar and strum out the familiar chords to Three Dog Night’s “Joy to the World.” The song is boring, just like the others in the set. I’m pretty sure I can play this in my sleep. I fake a smile and move across the stage. Sometimes I lean into Steph playing bass, pressing our sweaty T-shirts together and grinding our backs with the music (the guys in the audience love to see two girls in collision even if it’s fake), or I shout out a few background lyrics into Todd’s microphone; all in an effort to heighten the show and rile the people. The crowd can’t get enough of our act, our performance. But do they love us for playing the song or for the song? If it’s for the song then I can’t help but feel phony.
I decide to test the waters. When Todd and Stephanie sing the chorus, I bend a few notes. The change to the song is subtle and not enough to destroy recognition. Todd and Stephanie cringe at me, trying not to show their peeved expression to the crowd, and keep on singing. I sigh and go back to playing the notes as people remember it.
The last song to our set of covers ends. We never play originals. Why bother? Look at what playing other band’s songs can do for the world. They love us. They adore us. The band adores them. Everyone is having the best time. “Why mess with perfection?” Todd always says. I just hope I can convince the crowd and the band that I’m having the time of my life too even though I want to go home and hide under the bed.
The crowd screams for an encore.
“More!”
“Play some Bowie.”
“Skynard!”
“Nah. Sorry,” Todd says. He holds up his hand and smiles his apology. “Thank you so much. We’ll be back next week.”
I’m relieved. The part about ‘next week’ makes me nervous, though. Who knows if I’ll be here?
I unplug the guitar from the amp and walk with the rest of the band off the stage. Steph slips her arm around my shoulder. She’s straight, I’m sure. I don’t read into it.
“We were fucking rolling, right?” Steph asks.
I nod, staring at the floor and wiping the sweat from my brow.
“Gawd, Joni,” she says. “Try to smile once in a while. You’re really starting to worry me.”
We enter the storage space that acts as a dressing room. I place the Strat in its case and grab a folded towel from the pile on the table. I wipe the moisture from my neck and hair. Stephanie grabs a beer and offers me one.
“If Horace catches me with that he’ll string me up by my nipples,” I say.
Stephanie laughs. I pour a glass of water from the pitcher next to the basin filled with beer and ice.
“Oh, fuck him,” Stephanie says. “You’re a high school graduate.”
That’s true, but I’m still only sixteen. A lot of people forget that fact. Mom never does. Ever. In order to get this bi-weekly gig, I promised Horace that I wouldn’t try anything funny, which means no drinking and getting the law down on him or me.
“Hey, Joni, what the fuck was that during the last song?” Todd sips his beer and sits on the plush chair. His yellow silk shirt and silver pant legs hang open like he thinks his bald chest and bulge will do something to me and Stephanie; like we’ll forget we’re human beings with dignity and want to pleasure him as if he’s Robert Plant from Led Zeppelin. Now if Steph were sitting there with her legs open, that would be another thing.
Arnie and Steph exchange glances and shake their heads. I guess they were hoping that Todd would forget my note bending impulse.
“Leave her alone,” Stephanie says. “Can’t you stew in your fan adoration?”
I sit in a chair and rub the cold glass over my forehead. People shouldn’t be sweating so much when the rest of North Carolina is in the middle of winter outside.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, hiding my smile behind the glass.
“The fuck you don’t, little girl,” he says.
I hate when he calls me that. He’s only nineteen. What makes him the elder statesman?
“I didn’t mess up the song, all right,” I say. “Arnie had no trouble keeping time. Right, Arnie?”
Arnie squirms in his seat. He’s Todd’s younger brother, which damns him to being submissive. “Well, no. I guess not.”
“You’ve been doing this shit a lot, Joni. Quit fucking with the songs. They’re fine by themselves. What if you went off on a complete tailspin? We’re not a free Jazz band.”
“Relax, Todd,” I say. “It’s just a little improv. It won’t happen again.”
“This is a good gig. If you fuck this up, you might give Horace a chance to get someone for a cheaper price.”
“I doubt that,” I say.
“Yeah, no one with any self respect would take lower than what Horace is paying us,” Steph says, laughing.
Arnie and I smirk and then hide it behind our drinks.
Todd glares at me.
“Then maybe we’ll need to find a new guitarist,” he says.
“Todd, don’t be a dick,” Stephanie says.
This could be easier than I thought.
“Maybe you should,” I say.
“Joni,” Steph says. “C’mon. He didn’t mean that.”
Todd remains silent. He meant it. Why would he risk not having the world love him and his act?
“Yeah, but I did,” I say. “This is my last gig, guys. I’m quitting the band.”
Arnie and Steph exchange worried expressions. Todd leans forward in his chair and scrunches his eyes. “You joining another band? Not that asshole Thompson’s Fleetwood Mac cover band, is it?”
I stifle a laugh. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that band. I hear all they play are weddings and sweet sixteen parties.
“No,” I say. “I’m moving to New York.”
“New York,” Steph says. “What’s in New York?”
“Maybe she thinks she’s going to jump into that scene and become the next Talking Heads or Patti Smith?” Todd leans back, more confident in his posing. “Scene up there is dead and gone.”
Todd’s sort of right. All the bands like The Ramones, The Patti Smith Group, and Velvet Underground that created the New York punk scene are on major labels now. But that doesn’t mean I can’t hook up with a band and be as big as them, so big that I’ll be on the radio.
“Nope,” I lie. “Going to live with my dad for a while.” Which is the other half of the truth.
“Wait a minute.” Steph shakes her head and smiles, relieved. “This is insane. There is no way on God’s green Earth your mother will let you live with your father.”
“Um, well. My mom doesn’t know about it yet.”
Everybody relaxes. I bitched to them before about how Mom hates my dad for walking out on us when I was four years old.
“God, you scared me, Joni.” Condescension laces Steph’s voice. “I really thought you were going away.”
“I’m still going to ask her.” Anger tingles in my cheeks. I may be sixteen, but I’m still their equal.
Steph pats my back and then gets another beer. “You are so doomed. Why do you torture yourself like this?”
I hate her for saying it, but she may be right.
Track 2 – Delicate Sale
Mom parks the blue pick-up at the rear parking lot of the Flea Market. Other vendors are already unpacking their wares and bringing them into the airplane-hangar-like building. Mom - just as bundled up as me in a puffy winter coat, wool hat, and gloves - turns off the engine. The heat in the car is still busted. If we do well today, Mom can pay the mechanic to fix it. Lately the oil and gas bills have been building up, more so than what her waitress job can pull in. I try offering her some money that I’ve earned playing guitar, but she tells me to save it for college. College? Yeah, right.
“Ready to brave the arctic?” Mom asks.
I smile. “Let’s kick some ass.”
We get out of the car. The winter air blurs my vision. In record time we carry the ten boxes of ceramic vases, dishes, and mugs that Mom makes in her spare time. I don’t know how she does it. Sometimes she works a double shift at the diner and still finds time to go down into the basement, spin that potter’s wheel, and fire up the kiln.
When Mom and I finish setting up the small booth, we have fifteen minutes to kill before the doors open.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“Coffee.”
We walk past the vendors to the snack stand by the main entrance. Mom buys us each a large coffee. I figure now is as good a time as any. We’re in a public place, mixing milk and sugar in our coffee. Mom can’t kill me in front of strangers. Not her only daughter. Could she? God, I realize, this is harder to bring up than the time I came out about my sexuality. Mom was so cool with that. I just hope she can be cool with this.
“Mom, I need to tell you something.”
She finishes stirring the milk and sugar in and places the cap on her cup. “Sure, sweetie. What’s up?”
I cover my coffee too and study it as I feel her eyes on me. Why can’t she look somewhere else? Attentive parents can be so faulty sometimes. “Well, I’ve been thinking. Since I’m not going to college anytime soon, I should move.” I look up at her.
Mom flinches. “Move?” She smiles like I told her something weird.
“Yeah. Out of the house.”
“Joni, we had this talk before. If you want, when you’re eighteen you can move out and get your own place.”
“I don’t want to live by myself.” I sigh and then release the verbal bullet. “I want to live with Dad for a while.”
Mom stares at me. Her face is blank; I can’t make anything out. She’s speechless. I bite my lower lip. I wish she would stop staring. Just turn away, I command with my mind.
“Mom?”
She keeps zoning out, holding my eyes with hers.
“Shit, Mom. Please say something.”
“Are you high?”
“What? No.”
“You have to be high. There is no way in hell I am letting you live with your father.” The anger I have been expecting surfaces. I thank God. Sort of. It’s better than that blank face.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why? Why? Are you serious? Do I need to remind you that he left us nothing so he could pursue some stupid dream of being a club owner.”
Now I want to pursue my dream of being a rock guitarist. But there’s no way I’m telling her that’s my main reason for wanting to go.
“Sure,” Mom says, “I would have accepted the fact that he didn’t want to be a lawyer anymore, but to want to... And to leave us. No. Absolutely not. No. No. N. O. No.”
“Mom, please. Stay calm.” I look around and make sure no one is watching. I move closer and lower my voice. “It’s not like we just thought of it. I can stay with him. He has a bedroom for me. Dad’s restaurant is doing well and he has money to take care of me. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
“Is this his idea?”
“No. It’s mine.”
Sort of. We both came up with it. But I don’t think she’ll believe the truth.
“No. He is a bum. I am not going to send my sixteen year old daughter to the city to live with a bum.”
“That bum is my father. We share the same DNA. I have the right to get to know him, don’t I?”
Mom opens her mouth. No words come out. She then looks at her watch. “We have to get back. They’re going to open soon.”
She turns and walks back to the booth. I follow. I don’t know how to feel. Did I win or lose? Am I going or spending another summer in North Carolina?
Crap.
Track 3 – Blank Screaming Expressions
The rest of the day Mom doesn’t talk to me except when we’re working. She hides her anger well in front of the customers. I’m not shy about showing it. When a customer asks me a question about our products, I ask Mom, in my best condescending voice, when we’ll get it back. The customers notice my tone, their faces moving from shock to worry. Mom keeps her cool and always answers me with a blank expression. I hate that. I always project what she might be thinking. She must think I’m stupid for wanting to be with my father.
By the end of the day, I can’t take it anymore. We’re in the pick-up and heading home when I say, “You’re being a real jerk.”
Mom laughs and shakes her head. “Me? Who’s the one that has been treating me like shit all day?”
“Well, maybe you deserve it.”
She doesn’t but I don’t know what else to say.
“Listen, Joni. I’m not going to stay too mad at you about this. I know it’s not your fault. Your father can be very charming and persuasive. Like a three year old.”
“I told you before. It wasn’t his idea.” I sigh, hard. “C’mon, Mom. He’s my father. You obviously want me to know him or you wouldn’t have pushed me to call him on the phone or let me accept his letters. I love him. I want to get to know him more. Plus, this will be a cultural experience for me. Wilkesboro is bumble fuck USA. What kind of experience am I gonna get here?”
Mom laughs. “Bumble fuck? It’s not that bad. It’s safe. And cheaper than New York.”
“Dad said he would cover everything. Plus, I might get a job. Save some money for college.”
Her face softens under the glow of the moving streetlights and headlights. I’m getting to her. I hope.
“I don’t know,” she says.
I mentally urge her over the hill. C’mon, Mom. Say it. Say it.
“No. I do know. You can’t go.”
I scream. “This is so crazy.”
Mom doesn’t respond. We don’t say a word to each other the rest of the day.
Track 4 – Late Night Bargaining
I wake up with the large earphones cushioning my head. The Grand Rapid Libido record is over and the needle skips onto the label at the center of the LP. Posters of Heart, G.R.L., and Kiss hang tacked to the ceiling. I close my heavy eyes, take off the headset, and place it on the floor. As I reach over to flick off the stereo next to my bed, I hear a voice down the hall.
“You better not be fooling around here, Frank.”
It’s Mom’s voice, talking to Dad.
I sit up and walk barefoot out into the hall. I hug my arms around my sleep shirt and stop at the entrance to the kitchen. Mom sits at the table, her back to me. She holds the phone to her ear. A half a bottle of vodka and orange juice sits on the table. Mom rarely drinks. She must be having a real hard time with this. An acidy swirl fills my stomach.
“Uh huh. Okay,” she says. “No. I have no interest in that….Ha ha…Oh yeah? You? Please.”
I smile. I’ve never heard Mom sound so pleasant with Dad on the phone. Maybe the vodka has something to do with it.
“I swear to God, Frank. If you screw this up, if I hear anything bad from her, I will call the police and have them bring her home. Shit, I’ll come up there myself and drag her home. She’s still 16. She’s not an adult yet in the eyes of the law….No, I did not forget you were a lawyer.”
Mom takes a swig from the bottle.
I smile wider and cover my mouth, holding back a cheer.
“Yeah. Yeah. She can go. I’ll call you back later and we’ll work out the details…No chance in hell you can have her for Christmas…Damn right. Good night, Frank.”
She hangs the phone up. “Asshole.”
“So I can go?” I ask, trying not to run in and hug her.
Mom jumps up and turns around in her seat. She holds her heart and catches her breath. “Jumping Jesus.”
I walk up to her. “Well?”
“Yes. You can go.” She forces a smile.
I hug her. “Oh, thank you so much.”
She stands up and hugs me.
“But there are a few conditions. You have to write me a lot. I want to know how you’re doing. Maybe some phone calls; if your father can afford it.”
“I can do that.”
“Uh, huh. And you have to get a job. I don’t want you doing nothing all day up there while your father works.”
“Absolutely. Thank you so much, Mom.”
I can’t stop hugging her. I have never felt so happy. Mom squeezes me just as tight. I don’t think it’s because she’s happy for me. Maybe she can’t let me go.
“You’re right,” Mom says. “He’s your father. You’re a part of him and he’s a part of you. And as much as I hate to admit it, you are getting older. You should have him in your life. I just don’t want to see him hurt you again.”
I nod against her shoulder and smile. How could Dad possibly hurt me when we have so much in common with music?
“You’re right,” Mom says. “He’s doing well, too.”
“He’s all grown up.”
Mom laughs. So do I.
“I love you, Mom. Even if you weren’t going to let me go.”
She pulls back. Her eyes are red and wet. She loves me, too.
Track 5 – The Good Bye Song
Mom drives me to the 7:37 PM bus. Along with two suitcases of clothes, I bring my Strat, my acoustic guitar, my amp, and my pedal board. I didn’t pack any records or tapes. From what Dad has written in his letters, he has most of what I listen to at home. Plus now that I’m entering the Manhattan nightlife, I’ll be listening to all those musicians live at clubs anyway. How cool is that? No more live honky tonk and shit-kicker music, no more cover bands.
We stand by the line of people boarding the bus. I study the porter placing my equipment and luggage in the compartment, making sure he doesn’t drop them. The man makes me fidget so much that I want to do the task for him. I use all the will I have to stay in place. In the end, he does a good job. They look safe and secure. I breathe a little easier and wonder if I should tip him.
“Now, you’re sure you want to do this?” Mom asks.
“Mom, don’t start,” I say.
“I must be crazy.”
“You’re not having second thoughts are you? You can’t have second thoughts now.” I grab her shoulders and look her right in the eyes. “The bus is right here, Mom. I have the ticket in my pocket. Commitment and following through, remember? It’s what you always taught me.”
She rubs my arms and smiles. “We could go to New York together. I’ll stow away in the bathroom. Then when we get there, we can take a bus to California.”
“Okay,” I say. “Now I get to ask the question. Are you high?”
“I should be. Maybe I’ll stop downtown and see if I can cop some dope.”
“Mom!” I laugh and look around to see if anyone heard her. People are too busy with their own good-byes and making sure their luggage is safe.
Mom hugs me. I squeeze back.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m going to be fine. I’ll write to you. Dad will take good care of me.”
“I know he will.”
My heart tingles. I’m so glad she’s confident in Dad. Like she’s starting to see him a little deeper, more than some guy who ran out on her to pursue a dream instead of her. The phone calls this past month planning the trip must have something to do with it. Now I wish I didn’t lie to her about my motives, how I hope to play music in a New York band and find some success.
I notice the line of passengers for the bus shrink.
“I better get on or I’m going to be stuck next to a farting fat man or an old lady who can’t stop telling me boring stories about her handsome grandsons,” I say.
Mom releases me and kisses my cheek. We say our good-byes and hug five more times before I get on the bus. I find a seat by the window and wave to Mom as the bus pulls away. Seeing her drying her tears and smiling while standing on the platform makes my eyes swell. I remain strong and hold back my own waterworks. I’m going to be a city girl now. Got to stay tough.
Track 6 – When Concrete Greets the Bumpkin
I sleep light on the bus, resting my head on the cold glass and opening my eyes to the passing trees, factories, and pitch-black space of night. I wake up in Weehawken, New Jersey just as the bus prepares to enter the Lincoln Tunnel. Fighting the feeling of a wet rag pressing behind my eyes and aches stabbing throughout my back, I lift my heavy head and look around the bus. Most of the passengers are still asleep. How can they sleep when we’re traveling under the Hudson River? The very idea of being under all that water freaks me out. What if the walls crack and the Hudson rushes in? I could drown with these people. Now there’s a cheery thought. The driver could have taken the George Washington Bridge, right? If the bridge collapses, I have more of a chance escaping out the window and swimming to shore.
Stop it! I mentally slap myself. The Lincoln Tunnel has been here for decades and hasn’t collapsed yet. The tunnel is so successful that they built another one, The Holland. Stop acting like a dumb country bumpkin.
When the bus comes out of the tunnel, the city greets me. The rainbow of sunrise paints the sky between the tallest buildings I have ever seen outside of magazines and books. People rush to beat the yellow lights and cars screech to a halt at the red ones. Everyone looks straightforward and seems to be in a hurry to get someplace. They don’t even wait for a light to turn green before they cross the street. Huge trucks double-park while burly and skinny guys unload boxes and clothes racks filled with plastic-covered garments. The men don’t work too hard, giving some of their attention to the women who walk by them on the way to their early morning office jobs.
I love it. I can’t keep my eyes off the sights and my jaw keeps dropping. I must look like a complete tourist, minus the camera.
The bus pulls into the Port Authority terminal and releases the passengers. I step onto the platform and look around. I don’t see Dad. He did say he would meet me here. He wouldn’t have overslept. Or would he? No, he’s here. But with so many people, how can I expect to find him?
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
I turn around. Dad was right behind my back. He’s nothing like the wedding pictures Mom keeps stored in the basement. His dark hair is grown out and lines of age are carved around his mouth and eyes. I squeal and hug him. He picks me up and shakes me like a rag doll. Dad may be tall and skinny but he is also strong, at least strong enough to pick up my lanky one hundred and ten pound body. I love how my feet sway two feet above the gum-stained concrete and how his mustache tickles my cheek.
He stops laughing and places me back down.
“Wow you look so much bigger than you do in the pictures,” Dad says.
“Well, yeah. Mom always said I got your bones.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can say the same about you,” I say.
He places his hands on his hips, turns his head to the side, and juts his chin out. He looks good wearing a maroon-colored leather jack and bowler. So handsome. I can see why Mom fell for him. I can even see some of myself.
“Do I look Herculean?”
I laugh.
“No,” I say. “You need muscles for that.”
He stops posing and laughs.
We hug and kiss one more time and then collect my luggage. Dad takes the suitcases while I carry the two guitars and amp with the pedal board strapped to it.
“Let me carry one of those,” he says.
I slip the acoustic guitar case on my back and carry the Strat and amp by the handles. “I got it. See?”
Dad frowns. Was he really anxious to carry all of my bags? I am a grown woman. I have carried worse while setting up for gigs.
“I see that.” He nods his head. “All right, then. To the car.”
Dad and I walk through Port Authority and onto 42nd Street. We pass a few stores advertising the words XXX and Live Nude Girls and a grimy theatre with Pink Flamingos and Deep Red on its marquees. Outside, the sky feels even brighter than before on the bus. The wind is sharp, freezing me through my winter jacket. I can’t find an order to the chaos of citizens. People don’t stick to one side of the sidewalk, like on the roads. They just go as they please and don’t get hassled. In some spots the crowd thickens, making it difficult to pull our bags through the people. I’m amazed how most of them couldn’t care less that I hit them with my guitar and amp by accident.
“I’m just on 40th Street,” he says. “Got lucky and found a spot.”
When we head down 8th Ave, Dad asks, “So how’s your mom doing?”
“She’s good. A little down.”
“Oh, what about?”
I flinch at him. He looks at me. Doesn’t he get it?
“Because I’m here,” I say.
“Oh, right. She’ll miss you. I get it.”
The morning light reveals Dad’s bloodshot eyes and the sagging skin around them. His smile doesn’t look as healthy as before.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” I ask.
“Nah,” he says. “Been working. We don’t close until 3 AM. I did some clean up and paperwork. By the time I finished it was time to come get you.”
“If I had known that, I would have gotten a different bus.”
“Don’t be silly. I was up. I always do my sleeping during the day anyway.”
He kisses the top of my head and hugs me close as we walk.
At his dark blue Cadillac, Dad opens the trunk and places my luggage in first. The amp and pedal board fit but the guitars don’t.
“You can just throw them in the back seat,” he says. “Well, not throw. You know what I mean.”
I lay the guitar cases in the back. I move over some stuffed file folders and newspapers next to the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor. Dad takes a blanket from the trunk and covers the guitars.
“Don’t want to inspire any illegal shopping,” he says. “Not in this economy.”
Dad locks up the car and claps his hands for a job well done. “How about breakfast. I know a great place just up the block.”
Sounds perfect.
Track 7 – Coffee, Cigarettes, and Hands
We eat breakfast in the 39th Street Diner. The name isn’t original, but the French toast and hash browns taste great. I’m so hungry I eat Dad’s buttered wheat toast. He laughs and asks, “You’re not high are you?”
The comment throws me off. I’m used to Mom using that line around in jest. With Dad, he sounds serious.
“I assure you, I’m not high. Just starving.”
Dad smiles. “Good girl.”
“What about you? You feeling okay?” I ask. “You didn’t eat much.”
“I do most of my eating when the sun goes down.”
“Sleep all day, feed all night,” I say. “My dad the vampire.”
“You know it, baby.” He smiles wide.
The waitress refills our coffee cups and clears the dishes. Dad lights another cigarette and offers me one. Usually I only smoke on special occasions. This seems like a good one. I pick a cigarette and let him light it.
“So how’s the Strand doing?” I put in the cream and sugar with one hand and hold the lit cigarette with the other.
“Doing fantastic.” Dad sips his black coffee. “So well, I think I’ll be able to open another location soon. I’m thinking of this place on the Upper West Side.” He leans in. “There is this great warehouse up there. Maybe a disco kinda space but for rock, you know? I can triple the clientele and maybe draw in bigger names. Picture it? The Who, The Rolling Stones, or even KISS. It seems like so many of these acts are getting into bigger venues like stadiums. If I can sort of match that volume…you never know.”
“Sounds cool. I’m so glad things are working out.”
“Yeah. Maybe I can get the deal done by next year.”
Dad and I exchange smiles.
“So what do you think the chances are I can hook up with a band up here?” I ask.
He flinches. “Believe it or not, more and more bands are forming everyday. It’s like everyone wants to be the next Ramones or Patti Smith. The scene is so flooded that bands have been hounding me to play the Strand.” Using a shaky hand, he sips his coffee and places it back down. “Not that I’m complaining. A lot of them are good, but you have these bands now that are so friggin’ annoying. The bastards don’t tune their instruments and they create these horrible sounds.” He lights another cigarette, using two fragile hands. “It ain’t even Punk. Don’t know what the fuck it is. Shit doesn’t even have a blues foundation.” He looks at me, his eyes serious, his brow furrowed. “What the hell is the point of playing music if no one wants to hear it? Do you understand that? If you do, please explain it to me.”
I push out a laugh. “I have no idea.” And I don’t. I don’t think I have ever heard music the way he described it. What is the use of playing if no one wants to listen to it?
Dad’s face brightens up. “Of course you wouldn’t. Not a guitar player like you. My girl is going to be up there with the best of them. Top 40 all the way. This I know.”
I feel my face flush, look out the window, and savor the warmth in my heart. Dad and I continue to sip our coffee, inhale the cigarettes, and stare out the window to the city.
I peek at Dad a few times as his fingers tap out a rhythm instead of shaking. For a man who has accomplished so much and says how happy he is, he sure has a lot of melancholy in his face. And what’s with the manic hands? Maybe he’s just over-tired or has too much nicotine and caffeine running through his veins. The man has put down four cups of coffee and five cigarettes since we sat down.
He looks at me and flashes that million dollar smile. “Should we saddle up, partner?”
Track 8 – No Dinner with the Devil
Back in the car, Dad drives and announces we’re heading to the Murray Hill section. He doesn’t say much after that. He just hums an unrecognizable tune. I sit, quiet, sucking in the sights and trying to figure out this beast called New York. It is so not like North Carolina. Nothing is spacious, or quiet, or private. And yet, people appear to be in their own world. I like that idea. People respect your space, not like back home. Everyone is always in your business, especially when you’re ‘out’ in regards to sexuality. The town never gave Mom and I a hard time. Mostly the men called me dyke or lez behind my back or under their breath. People also questioned us about our personal lives and searched for some kind of scandal, like they expected us to have the Devil over for dinner. I doubt I would get that here.
I also can’t get over the women in this city. Whether they look like they’re getting out of the office, hanging out in the kitchen, or strutting the walk way, I have never seen so many beautiful women in one spot. I bite my lower lip and picture kissing a few of them.
At Park Avenue between 34th and 35th Street, Dad leads the car into a garage a block away from his apartment building. I notice the rates for just a day and whistle at the outrageous cost. I could rent an apartment back home for the same price a month. I guess this is another adjustment: Dad is going to have more money than Mom; the lifestyle will be different.
The wide apartment building has five floors and looks like it was originally a house built in the seventeen or eighteen hundreds. I love it. It’s so classy and gothic with the arched windows and two witches’ caps on either side of the roof.
Dad’s apartment is on the 4th floor. Since there’s no elevator, we have to walk up the carpeted stairs. By the time we reach the top, we’re so out of breathe that we have to sit on the steps. Dad and I exchange glances and laugh at how out of shape we are.
“Normally, this doesn’t happen,” he says. “It’s the luggage.”
“Sure it is,” I say.
The apartment is not as big as I expected. He has two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and a bathroom, but they’re all narrow. He shows me to my bedroom down the hall. Even though it’s smaller than my room at home, a new bed, dresser, desk, and an empty bookcase comfortably stand against the walls without taking up too much space.
“Wow,” I say.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I bite my tongue and think, Yeah, if I were ten years old this would be great.
Posters of kids’ shows like Josie and the Pussy Cats and Woody Woodpecker cover the wall. The bed sheets and curtains have matching Tom and Jerry patterns. Is Dad pulling a joke?
“I decorated everything myself.” He walks around the room, so proud. “Didn’t ask the saleslady for any help. I swear.”
“I totally believe you,” I say with unrestrained sarcasm.
Dad turns to me and frowns. “You don’t like it?”
I force a smile. “No. No, I love it.”
“Great. Fantastic.” Dad claps his hands. “So here’s the plan. I sure know I could use some sleep. Why don’t we take a nap and then we can have lunch at Hermosa.”
“I’d love that.”
Dad hugs me tight. I squeeze him back and inhale the musk off his shirt.
“So glad you are here, baby,” he says. “I really missed you. I can’t wait to get to know you more than through letters and phone calls, you know?”
“Me, too.”
He kisses the top of my head and then leaves the room, closing the door behind him. I walk over to the window, divide the cartoon curtains, and look out at the city.
“You’re mine now,” I say. “Or is it the other way around?”
Track 9 – Avoiding that Fat Tall Girl Who Plays Guitar
I wake up on my new bed and stretch out. Daylight streams in through the gaps between the closed curtains. The Mickey Mouse wind-up clock on the night table reads 3 PM. I didn’t expect to sleep so long. I hope I hadn’t kept Dad waiting. I stand and walk to the living room, moving slow, still getting used to my new digs.
“Dad?”
All is quiet except for the sounds of car horns and sirens four stories below. I move back down the hall and lean my head to the closed bedroom door. Light snoring leaks out. I relax a little.
In the kitchen, I search for something to eat and drink. The fridge and the cabinets are almost empty. Dad must do all his eating out or at the Hermosa Strand. Does he expect me to do that, too? No way. I would get so fat eating nothing but restaurant food. I’m not ready to be perceived as that tall fat girl who plays guitar.
I manage to find a box of crackers and an open carton of orange juice. I walk over to the couch and turn on the television with the remote box on the coffee table. I grab at it, tugging the cord off the floor and almost pulling the television, too. As I eat crackers and drink the juice, I flip through the New York channels and wait for Dad. Although he has cable, I can’t find anything interesting to watch. Talking heads fill the screen this time of day. People reveal their personal problems to the world or cartoons try to make people forget them. Just as well, I never watched too much television at home.
I go over to the stereo system and flip through his crate of records. He does have a lot of my favorites from back home: Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band’s Night Moves and Beautiful Loser, Tom Petty’s awesome self-titled LP that no one has the brains in this country to rave about yet, Queen’s Sheer Heart Attack, and Peter Frampton’s Frampton Comes Alive. I take out the Grand Rapid Libido’s LP The Great Shakedown and spin it on the turntable. Their sludgy guitar rock chords laced with folky acoustic rhythms graces the air. I inhale and close my eyes. The music urges me to play along with it, but I make no move from the floor. My soul may want to strum chords, but my body is just not into the act. I’m not in the mood to play something that has already been done even though those are the very songs that taught me how to play. Instead I imagine myself on stage with the rest of the band and play along with guitarist Carlos Romero.
The phone on the coffee table rings. I stare at it. It couldn’t be for me, right? Maybe it’s Mom and she wants to know that I’m ok, that I made it safe. I reach for the phone as it stops ringing. Shit. The tape in the answering machine clicks on and a voice speaks out.
“Frank, it’s Tony. Are you there? C’mon, bro. This is important.”
Dad’s hand turns the machine off. His brow and mouth frown with agitation.
“Um, you didn’t want to take that?” I ask. “Sounds important.”
Dad, as if remembering I’m in the room, smiles at me. If he’s trying to appear fine, then he’s doing a poor job. I can see the worry in his eyes.
“It’s just an investor. They think everything is important when it comes to money,” he says.
He sits down on the couch and grabs some crackers from the box.
“Mmm, a little G.R.L., huh?” he asks. “Good choice. I love this album.”
“Me, too.” I turn to him and fold my legs. “Carlos Romero is brilliant on here. It’s his best work. God, what I would give to see his fingers move.”