THIRTY-FIVE

“You don’t sound good at all,” Sean says immediately when I pick up the phone.

“You’re observant,” I answer.

I’ve been up all night doing coke and drinking. I think I slept for an hour, but I’m not really sure. My head aches. My body feels dried up and wrung out. I could probably sleep for the rest of the week. Goddamned phone. I should have turned off the ringer.

“Do you still want me to come over?”

“I didn’t even know you were in town.”

Usually I want to see Sean. But not today. Today I don’t want to see anyone.

“I told you last time I saw you that I’d be here today. Remember? We said we’d finish the song.”

“I hate that song.”

“Oh.” Sean sounds hurt. “We could work on something else then, I guess.”

“We’re wasting our time.”

I shouldn’t be taking this out on him. He’s the only person I know who’s nice to me. I want to hang up and start fresh from a different place. But I can’t stop. All my hurt has surfaced and is now yanking the strings for me. “No do-overs!” taunts a childish voice in my head. My logical self is sitting this one out.

“I’ve never felt that way,” he says. “Working with you is great.”

“Yeah? Then why haven’t we finished it yet?” Now I’m simply being mean.

“You know I just had mid-terms. I’m practically flunking out of school. I’m on a scholarship! Which I’ll lose if I don’t straighten out this semester.”

“Well, it’s good to see where your priorities lie, college boy,” I retort.

Stop it, just stop it! I don’t want to do this, and I can’t do anything else right now. Just go away and come back when I feel like a human being.

“Hey, fuck you.” Sean has just passed over from hurt into angry. “When did you start becoming such a bitch?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say sarcastically. “Maybe the last time Barry hit me? Did you know he hit me?” I hear Sean catch his breath. The rest of my diatribe comes spewing out. “Of course you didn’t, because I never told you. Did you know that Barry and Alannah used me up and then both left me high and dry? Did you know I quit Angels because the bouncers wouldn’t protect me from a posse of ugly, dirty street rats? On that note… did you know I once got raped in a strip club before I knew how to keep these fuckers at bay? Management did nothing. That’s right, you heard me, nothing. They knew… Yeah, you don’t know the first thing about my life. You only know what I tell you. I’ve kept it simple for you. I wanted you to think I was different.”

He’s silent for long enough that I wonder whether he’s still on the line. Then he says, “You are different. At least, you’ve always been different. You’re smart. You’re nice. You’re incredibly fucking talented. Your voice would move people if more people could hear it.”

“Fat chance, honey,” I say. “The only thing about me that’s ever gonna move anyone is my ass grinding in his lap.”

“That’s a harsh way to look at yourself.”

No shit, Sean.

“I got it straight from the horse’s mouth. Fuck it. I’m done.”

“Done? What are you done with?” Now he sounds like he feels almost as lousy as I do.

“DONE! Just done. Time to accept my lot in life and get on with it.” I hear him exhale on the other end. “Look, Sean…” I try to make my voice gentler. This is a challenge alongside the permanent cocaine rasp it seems to have taken on. “I’m sorry for letting you believe I was better than I am. Truth is, I’m as damaged as any other stripper you’ve ever seen. Maybe more.”

“That’s not true,” he objects. “The shit you just told me is horrible. And I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare go feeling sorry for me!”

It’s a stupid thing to say, especially in light of the amount of time I spend feeling sorry for myself.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. Except all those things you just told me? Those are the songs we should be writing.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” I’ve gone flat again. “Let’s tell the whole world how easy it is to fuck me over. Let’s write across the sky in giant letters that I’m a victim.”

“You think if bad things happen to you, it automatically means you’re a victim?”

“Honestly? Yeah. That’s what I think.”

“You know, I never told you a lot about my life, either. Maybe you’d think I’m a victim, too.”

His statement catapults me back into reality. I feel a pang of remorse for how selfish I’m being. I try to make amends. “Sean, I could’ve put up with any of what I just told you as long as I believed I had an out, and that out was music. But I don’t anymore. So I have nothing left to look forward to.”

“You know what? I went to Catholic school. The nuns gave us coloring books that said ‘Jesus loves you’. I used to believe that. I guess the people I love best are supposed to be with Jesus now, too. ‘Cause most of ‘em are dead. So I got sold on a bunch of garbage about God that I no longer believe. Am I supposed to pack it in, too?”

“I met some A&R reps the other day, and they said I was a terrible singer. ‘Caterwauling’ was the word I think they used. That’s about the same as God coming down from his fluffy cloud and announcing that I shalt not bother playing music. So, I see your Jesus, and I raise you four pudgy A&R reps,” I say.

“What kind of music did these guys rep?” Sean asks.

“Who cares? I think they would know better than you and I would about whether I should keep on singing.”

“All right.” He sounds tired and discouraged. “I’m not gonna argue with you anymore. Call me some time if you want to. I’ll be home for winter break. Ball’s in your court now, okay? I’ll talk to ya.”

“Hey, wait! Sean!” I realize that I’d like to see him anyway, even if I don’t feel like working on our tune.

It’s too late. He’s hung up the phone.

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