THIRTEEN
When I exit the commuter train at Woodbridge, New Jersey, I’m momentarily stunned by the difference in landscape. As far as I know, no place in New York looks like this. There’s a long row of stores lining a street that feels like it’s come from another period in history. The lampposts have baskets of flowers on them. I halfway expect to see a general store selling birch beer candy sticks. Or maybe a barbershop quartet.
It’s taken me hours to get here from Queens. Getting lost on the way didn’t help. Now I reach into my pocket for the scrap of newspaper that I tore from the classifieds section of the Village Voice. I squint, trying to read the address I scrawled on it in magic marker. I look at the street number of a bakery in front of me. Then I glance at my watch and start running.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in the middle of a rehearsal room with three girls who look like models. The blonde is strapped to a guitar, the redhead to a bass, and the voluptuous brunette is sitting behind a drum kit. To my dismay, they’re all incredibly bitchy and full of themselves. It doesn’t seem to matter to them that I’ve just spent half my day traveling to their audition.
“We’ll have to get through this quickly,” huffs Blondie, the guitar player. “We’re making up our mind after this rehearsal. So, which of the songs did you memorize?”
“All of them,” I reply.
I did my homework for this, though homework is exactly what it felt like. Their last singer wrote the lyrics. They’re terrible. If I join this band, I intend to make changes.
“Well, let’s get to it, then,” the bassist pipes up. She looks like Ginger from Gilligan’s Island, except with freckles. “I can’t stay much longer. Donnie’s buying my engagement ring today.”
“He pick it out yet?” the drummer asks, leaning forward and winking. Wow. She has some serious cleavage on her.
“No, dummy. Why do you think I need to leave?” Ginger tosses her hair. “If I let him choose a rock, it’ll be too small.”
The three of them titter. I manage a small, pained smile. Brats.
Busty, the drummer, switches on a metronome. It beats, irritatingly, right behind my mic.
“That’s a bit distracting, isn’t it?” I say. I’ve never heard of a drummer using a click to play live.
“I don’t play without it,” Busty explains. “It helps me stay on the beat.”
“The rest of us don’t mind. We’re used to it. The singer would need to be used to it, too.” Now Blondie is frowning at me. “Our last singer didn’t have a problem.”
“It’s fine,” I assure her. After the distance I’ve come, I’d like the chance to sing today.
So we fall into a ragtag version of their songs. I remember all the lyrics. I even do an imitation of their old singer’s voice, because I can tell these girls were attached to her. I don’t make the imitation obvious. It does the trick. By the middle of the first song, the band’s attitude towards me has changed visibly. We jam out four tunes. We’re playing in synch, and they seem to be enjoying it, although for me it’s like karaoke from hell. But at least I’m singing.
After we wrap up the final tune, Blondie looks much friendlier. “You carried those off real well,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“We play about twice a month here in Jersey,” she tells me. “Practice here three nights a week.”
“Do you ever play in New York?” I ask. They did, after all, advertise in the Voice.
“We only play local gigs,” she says. “We all live here in town. New York is too far for us.” No irony whatsoever. Jeez.
“We’ve all been playing together now for seven years, so we’ve got a routine going,” says Busty, the drummer that couldn’t.
Seven years? Seven years and she still plays with a click?
“Would you be able to make it to rehearsal?” Blondie wants to know.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I work nights, and my schedule rotates.”
“Do you work in the city?” asks Ginger. She’s already begun to pack up her equipment.
“Yeah.”
“Whereabouts?” Busty asks. “My sister tends bar there, too.”
“Midtown,” I tell her. “On the east side.”
“What street?” she persists.
“East forty-seventh. Between Park and Lex.”
“There aren’t any bars on that street,” says Ginger.
Now all three of them are looking at me suspiciously. What gives, anyway? What do they know about New York?
“Hold on, wait a minute,” Busty says. “My sister told me she once went to a job interview in a bar on East Forty-seventh. She said they didn’t say much in the ad. And then the place turned out to be this really skanky strip club. Is that the bar you work at?”
Oh, Lord. Here we go. “Small world,” I say, squaring my shoulders.
“But you’re a… bartender, right?” Blondie asks me.
I remain silent. I don’t owe anyone a lie unless they’re paying me for it.
“Oh, my God! You’re a stripper, aren’t you,” crows Ginger, her urgent need to be someplace else apparently forgotten.
All three of them start to laugh. I decide that despite Blondie’s sour puss, Ginger’s got her beat for the role of nastiest bitch in the band.
“Hey, I heard that place is all nude,” adds Busty.
“Is that true? Do you show people your cooch?” This is Ginger again. I consider bashing in her freckled face with the mic stand.
“I have to go now,” I announce. “It takes forever to get back to Queens.”
“Right on, happy travels,” giggles Blondie. “Say, don’t call us, we’ll call you, okay?”
When I slam the door behind me, I can hear their laughter grow louder. I can feel the blood pumping in my veins. Spreading beet red across my face. This hot rush of rage could be pure embarrassment. Or I might actually hurt someone. What I do know is that I have to get going. Right now. Before any of us gets the chance to find out which one it is.
Who do these self-satisfied broads think they are? They’re playing in a piss-poor version of a Heart cover band. They live in a part of the world that still thinks it’s the eighties. And I’d bet almost anything that all three of them are supporting themselves with the help of some kind of daddy – biological or otherwise.
Who are they to say one word about what I do for a living?
No, I mean really. Do they have any right at all?
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November 30th, 2008 at 10:48 am
Nice. the worm is turning? I hope.
December 1st, 2008 at 1:53 pm
I got here via the grace undressed blog and I’ve just spent the last couple of days catching up. So of course I’m now hooked and looking forward to seeing where the story goes. People like yourself who are using the internet to get your story out there (and hopefully getting a publishing deal) have got me reading (and buying) books again after a long absense. I would certainly be willing to pay for this story if you were thinking of adding a paypal button.
December 2nd, 2008 at 6:10 pm
Thanks for this valuable feedback. It’s interesting that you feel this way, as I’ve just interviewed a panel of writers in the “blog” section for a feel on where publishing is going.